The Nut
He used to get, when in civilian state,
His tea and shaving water, sharp, at eight.
Then ten delicious minutes would be spent
In one last snooze of exquisite content.
That cosy nest, luxuriously sprung,
Was like a cloud ‘twixt earth and heaven hung,
The eiderdown and blankets, soft and warm,
Were yet as light as spindrift in a storm.
Unparalleled contingencies since then
Have found a soldier in the citizen.
In inky tent he thrusts and coils each limb
To make his one ewe blanket cover him.
The Spartan methods of a scanty kit
May make the budding soldier hard and fit,
Yet, while he sleeps, a chilliness of spine
Breeds harassed dreams of ’shun! 'and’ Right
incline!’
Grumble not he it’s all a bit of fun.
‘One blanket’s better,' as he says, 'than none’
The same for him as other Tommies, but
No disrespect in future for the Nut!
[The 'Nut’ referred to is Jessie Pope’s son Gilbert]
