The poem
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby's Scheme). I died in hell- (They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare: For, though low down upon the list, I'm there; 'In proud and glorious memory' ... that's my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he's never guessed. Once I came home on leave: and then went west... What greater glory could a man desire?
wow
It is a real pleasure to of read this poem it truly was ahead of it's time.
hi
your poem is great