And slipt his clothes off in the Cinulle-liglit, Too tired to fold them neatly on a chair The way his mother 'd taught him — too dog-tired After the long day's serving in the shop, Inquiring what each customer required, Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . .
And now for fourteen days and nights, at least. He hadn't had his clothes off, and had lain In muddy trenches, napping like a beast With one eye open, under sun and rain And that unceasing hell-fire . . .
It was strange IIow things turned out — the chances ! You'd just
got To take your luck in life, you couldn't change Your luck.
And so here he was lying shot WTio just six months ago had thought to spend His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps . . .
He'ld like to know how many of the chaps Had won back to the trench alive, when he Had fallen wounded and been left for dead. If any ! . . .
This was different, certainly, From selling knots of tape and reels of thread
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