Of the spawn of all the Earth.

BARB-WIRE POSTS.

Five o ’clock; the shadows fall
    In mist and gloom and cloud;
And No Man’s Land is a sullen waste,
    Wrapped in a sodden shroud;
And the click of Big Mac’s moving foot
    Is a dangerous noise and loud.

Ten o’clock; the wind moans low—
    Each tree is a phantom gray:
And the wired posts are silent ghosts
    That move with a drunken sway;
(But never a gleam in No Man’s Land
    Till the dawn of another day).

Twelve o ‘clock; the heavens yawn
    Like the mouth of a chasm deep;
And see—that isn’t the fence out there—
    It’s a Boche—and he stoops to creep—
I’ll take a shot—oh hell, a post—
    (Oh God, for a wink o’ sleep).

Two o ’clock; the cold wet fog
    Bears down in dripping banks:
Ah, here they come—the dirty hounds—
    In swinging, serried ranks!
Why don’t the automatics start? . . .
    Or do my eyes play pranks?

It doesn’t seem a column now,
    But just two sneaking there:
And one is climbing over,
    While the other of the pair
Is clipping at the wires
    With exasperating care.

(I’m sober as a gray-beard judge
    I’m calm as the morning dew—
I’m wide awake and I’ll stake
    My eyes with the best of you;
But I can’t explain just how or why
    Posts do the things they do.)

Three o’clock; they’re on the move—
    Well, let the beggars come. . . .
A crash — a hush — a spiral shriek—
    And a noise like a big bass drum—
(I hope that Hun shot hasn’t found
    Our kitchen and the slum).

.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .

Five o’clock; the first faint streak
    Of a leaden dawn lifts gray;
And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts
    That swagger, click and sway,
And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin,
    In a most unpleasant way.

FEET.

Some say this war was fought and won
    With gleaming bayonets,
That lift and laugh with Death’s own chaff
    And leave no fond regrets:
Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns
    Where the first barrages meet,
But I, by the poor old weary limping
    Tired broken feet.

Some say this war was fought and won
    By the crawling, reeking gas;
Some, by the flitting birdmen,
    That dip and pause and pass:
Some, by the splitting hand-grenades—
    But I, I hear the beat
Of the poor old faithful worn limping
    Tired broken feet.

Some say the war was fought and won
    By This or That or Those—
But I, by heel and sunken arch
    And blistered, bleeding toes.
Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles,
    Through mire, slush and sleet,
To the glory of the rhythm
    Of the poor old broken feet.

YOUR GAS-MASK.

When over your shoulders your “full-field” you fling,
And you curse the whole load for a horrible thing,
What is it you reach for, as outward you swing?
        Your gas-mask.

If you head for a bath by the small river’s flow—
Though only a distance of fifty or so—
What is it you carefully grab ere you go?
       Your gas-mask.

When in full marching-order, where mules might suffice,
And you count your equipment, each having its price,
What is it you feel for and count over twice?
       Your gas-mask.

In morning and afternoon, evening and night—
In first or support lines, in sleep or in fight,
What is it you cherish and cling to so tight?
       Your gas-mask.

What is it you never leave thoughtless behind?
What is it you clutch for with fingers that bind
As you sniff that first odor that comes on the wind?
       Your gas-mask.

SLUM AND BEEF STEW.

It’s a lot of dirty water
    And some little dabs of spuds,
And dubious hunks of gristly meat
    And divers other duds.

Served up to us in trenches,
    Our hunger made it good,
But elsewhere—when we got it—
    "We ate it, if we could.

And now about the time Josephus
    Tells his gobs to call
Port and Starboard, left and right,
    We’re ordered, one and all,

To most respectfully address
    Our slum as “beef stew”—Gosh,
Methinks the Brains of the Army
    Has dished-up awful bosh.

For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum
    Has called it so for aye;
As ‘twas when Thotmes III marched north
    To check the Hittites’ sway.

As ‘twas when Cyrus’ doughboys swept
    Through the Cilician Gates—
And as ’twill ever be so long
    As a weary mess-line waits.

So long as Nations fight and eat—
    Though all don’t feed as well—
For the Colonel is Sitting on the World—
    While we are S. O. L.

Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may
    Strike you as on the bum—
But as we’re Pershing’s slum-hounds,
    We’ll call the damn thing “slum”.

SHELL-FIRE.

The Hun he taught us Gas and things—
    But the high explosive shell
Was born of the Devil’s mirth
    And the reddest forge in Hell.

Now one hits the village church,
    And the ancient, wavering wall
And the little pointed tower swing
    And stagger and sway and fall.

Now one hits a red-slag roof,
    And eighty feet on high
Towers a monstrous, salmon cloud
    Against an azure sky.

Now one hits in a field of wheat,
    Fresh planted, fair and green,
And a mighty, thundering crater bursts
    Where abandoned plows careen.

Now one nears with spiral shriek
    And strikes in the long white road,
And the Lord ha’ mercy on the Red Cross truck,
    And its helpless, weary load.

Now one comes where you crouching wait
    In the trench’s far-flung line,
And you know there is never shelter against
    The voice of that deadly whine.

Now one pierces the dugout’s roof,
    And when the foul smokes pass,
What once was there a dozen men
    Is a crimson, clotted mass.

In the pale moonlight or the black of night—
    When the sunset fires flare—
In the noontime’s calm, without alarm,
    The Great Arch Fiend is there,
With his frightful cry as he rushes nigh
    On his errand of despair.

MR. FLY.

There’s a nice stiff breeze ablowing,
        Mr. Fly;
That keeps from out my trench.
The decomposing stench
Of a soldier, Boche or French,
        Mr. Fly.

So please run off and play,
        Mr. Fly.
So please run off and play
Like a good fly, right away,
For I want to sleep today,
        Mr. Fly.

I’m dozing like a bull-finch,
        Mr. Fly,
When you hop me, unaware,
And I wake and swat and swear,
And you return with thoughtful care,
        Mr. Fly.

Can’t you see I’m very tired,
        Mr. Fly?
That the G. I. Cans don’t bust,
And I’ve nibbled on a crust,
And deserve a snooze, I trust,
        Mr. Fly.

Do you think it’s square and decent,
        Mr. Fly,
When the Cooties cease to bite,