OUT OF FLANDERS
Three of us sat on the firing-bench
Watching the clouds sail by—
Watching the gray dawn blowing up
Like smoke across the sky.
And I thought as I listened to London Joe
Tell of his leave in town,
That's good vers libre with a Cockney twang;
I'll remember and write it down.
W'en I went 'ome on furlough,
My missus says to me, "Joe,
'Ow many 'Uns 'ave you killed?"
An' I says to 'er, "'Uns?"
Not thinkin' just wot she meant.
"Yes. 'Uns," she says, "them sneakin', low-lived 'Uns!"
Bitter? Not 'arf, she ain't!
An' they're all the same w'y in Lunnon.
My old mate Bill, who's lame
An' couldn't enlist on that account,
'E staked me to a pint of ale
At the Red Lion. Proper stuff it was
Arter this flat French beer.
"Well, 'ere's to old times!" says Bill,
Raisin' 'is glass,
"An' bad luck to the 'Uns you've sent below!
