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, (And there is no sleep at night) That you give me no respite,         Mr. Fly? An hour’s calm is with us,         Mr. Fly; And the endless battle strain, And the shelling and the rain, Ought to make it very plain,         Mr. Fly— That I need a little nap,         Mr. Fly. That I do need mighty well Just to sun and rest a spell, And to sleep here where I fell,         Mr. Fly. So have a heart, oh have a heart!         Mr. Fly. If you’re looking for a fight And you _must_ come ’round and bite, Make your visit in the night,         Mr. Fly. THE SALVATION ARMY WITH THE A. E. F. You kept no roped-off rows of chairs     Or clubs “For Officers Only,” But you toiled for John Doe when he was     Cold, tired, wet and lonely. You didn’t squander millions     On soldiers warming benches, But you worked like blazes for the ones     That frequented the trenches. You didn’t stick to cast-iron rules     Of business most punctilious, And you never treated Private Doe     With manner supercilious. You had no boundless backing—     But just inside your doors It seemed like, “Feel to home, Bill—     Sit down, the place is yours.” Some things we fain remember—     Some things we fain forget— But you, oh kindly people,     Live in our memory yet. SHELL-HOLES. They’re ugly, jagged, cone-shaped holes     That litter up the ground, That ruin all the landscape     For miles and miles around. That pock-mark fertile fields of green—     That rip the hard French roads, And catch the lumbering trucks at night     Agroan beneath their loads. And some of them are little uns     The shrill one-pounders plow— About a meter—edge to edge—     But large enough, I trow.