On the outskirts of Tripoli, we ran smack
into a hambush;
Lorenz dropped like a trollop's garters,
forcemeat streaming from his ears.
'Fall back! Fall back!' I yelled
through a shower of frankfurters,
our shell crater filling with gravy;
Private Prothero took a pasty to the privates;
he was still alive, but after that, what's a chap
to live for? I mercy-plugged him -
a quick guff to the face and he was at rest.
'Sleep well, dear Taff,' I eulogized,
then we were off across a moonscape
of low smoke and shrieking bacon twists,
the chill of the night putting meat on our bones,
meat on our bones.