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Saying the thing was worse than what the Tanks were;
He answered, begging them to go to Hell.
And thus we took that village on the Ancre
(This line is bad, but I have not the time
Or dictionary to find a proper rhyme.)

And now sequestered in this quiet nook,
I struggle to instruct the wise Cadet
In bombing (not according to the book)
Patrols and how most surely to revet
The crumbling trenches on the local hill,
And oft to the jocund piano’s strain,
I mount upon the platform with a will
To sing those ancient songs of mine again,
And place, obedient to my country’s call,
A deadlier strafer in their hands than all.

For these young officers shall find the pote
A weapon to avenge the nation’s wrongs,
And they with many a discordant note
Shall chant in many a trench my poignant songs;
And the pale enemy (to whom I fear
For the rhyme’s sake I must refer as ‘‘Hunes”)

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