information looked I ’round
    North, south and east and west—
But the good platoon had up and cleared
    Some several feet with zest.

(And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing,
    For me to understand,
Was that when I got up I had
    My mess-kit in my hand.)

And there I stood and gazed me down
    Upon the hole and mud,
And found I was alive because
    That blamed shell was a “dud.”

A dud’s a shell that fails to burst—
    Whose crater’s microscopic—
And as I’d just sunk down in it,
    My Fates were philanthropic—

For had the bally thing gone off—
    Instead of sitting jake—
You’d ne’er have found my scattered parts
    With a hair-comb or a rake.

You’d ne’er have found your humble slave—
    For, sprinkled east and west,
My sad remains would scarce have bulged
    The pocket of your vest.

A finger in Benares—
    A toe in Timbuctoo—
And on the Mountains of the Moon
    A portion of my shoe.

An eye on Kinchinjanga—
    To greet the snow-peaked morn;
An ear at Cape Lopatka,
    And my dog-tag at the Horn.