And some of them nigh twice as broad,     And rather more straight down, The “77” Boches’ gift,     Of dubious renown. And some of them a dozen feet     From rim to ragged rim, And deep enough to hide a horse—     A crater, gaunt and grim. And some of them are yellow-black,     Where clings the reek of gas, (But here we do not pause to gaze,     Nor linger as we pass). And some of them are water-fouled—     Or dried and parched and dun; And some of them are newly turned—     Fresh blotches ’neath the sun. But all spell red destruction,     Blind rage and blinding hate, To them who charge the shell-swept zone     Or in the trenches wait. Should we say “all,” or modify     Our statement? Any fool Knows that exceptions always rise     To prove an iron-clad rule. And so in this case we can name     _Some_ shell-holes we have met, The thought of whose engulfing sides     Clings in our memory yet. They were the holes we rolled into—     When iron or bullet struck— Cursing the cursed Prussian,     And blessing our blesséd luck. Oh lovely, beauteous shell-hole,     Wherein we helpless lay, A wondrous couch of velvet     Ye seemed to us that day. Our blood it stained your cushions     A deep and richer red, As shrieking messengers of death     Sped harmless overhead. Swept whining in their blood-lust,     Hell’s music, bleak and grim, Splitting in rage the edges     Of your all-protecting rim. Oh shell-holes, murderous shell-holes,     In vales of grass and wheat— On hillside and in forest,     In road and village street— Your toll of suffering and death     Is flashed to East and West— But tell they of the wounded     Ye’ve sheltered in your breast? FOOD. We’ve eaten at the Plaza, at Sherry’s and the Ritz— The Bellevue and the Willard and the Ponce de Leon     too. We’ve sampled all the cooking of the Savoy and     Meurice, Through a palate-tickling riot that Lucullus never     knew. From tables where the Northern Fires greet the     coming night— To Raffles out in Singapore and the Palace in Bombay; From Shepheard’s (which means Cairo) to that little     hostelry Way down in Trinchinopoly where purring punkahs     sway. We’ve traveled north, we’ve traveled south by all     routes known to man— We’ve traveled east, we ’ve traveled west by some they     scarcely came: From canvasback and terrapin to Russian caviar, From venison to bird-nest soup and curried things     and game. We’ve put them all beneath our belt with consummate     address: We’ve risen from the laden board and smacked our     jowl in glee. With organs sound and healthy we have murdered     each menu And left the wreck of good things with a gourmet’s     ecstasy. But do you wish to know the feasts that permeated     deep— That stirred the very bottom of my stomach to the     core? Quisine that brought such wondrous bliss, but satiated     not, That saturating satisfied, but still left room for more?