Tho odds diminish with our mounting dead
Small comfort’s gleaned from numbers game at hand
Here shakes the ground nearby my pounding head
Remiss the thoughts I hold; canst understand?
Whilst whistled ‘trr..iiii..ing’ from rounds won’t let me be
Each Prayer is for the ‘crr..a..ack’ to follow on
Relief when heard; tis proved not meant for me
As buried deep (face down) I lie in Somme
I long to be elsewhere; to life still clasp
Such promise as was held for future tense
Tis but a dream I hope my loved ones grasp
For I’m resigned to cost of this ‘offense’
From o’er the barricades our foe rains shell
Yet what we have we hold, he knows full well