Trench Poets
Trench Poets
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I knew a man, he was my chum,
but he grew every day,
and would not brush the flies away,
nor however fierce the hum
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of passing shells; I used to read,
to him, random things from —
like “.”
But you can tell he was far gone,
for he lay gaping, ,
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and stiff, and senseless as a
even when that old poet cried
“I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost.”
I tried the one day,
But he, because he heard me say:
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grinned nastily, and so I knew
the worms had got his brains at last.
There was one thing that I might do
to starve the worms; I racked my head
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.
His grin got worse and I could see
.
He stank so badly, though we were great chums
I had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs.
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