A Dead Boche

To you who'd read my songs of War

And only hear of blood and fame,

I'll say (you've heard it said before)

'War's Hell! ' and if you doubt the same,

Today I found in Mametz Wood

A certain cure for lust of blood:

Where, propped against a shattered trunk,

In a great mess of things unclean,

Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk

With clothes and face a sodden green,

Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,

Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.