The Fathers
Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle—eyed, and full of chat.
One of them said: ‘My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.
But Arthur’s getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine—inch gun.’
‘Yes,’ wheezed the other, ‘that’s the luck!
My boy’s quite broken—hearted, stuck
In England training all this year.
Still, if there’s truth in what we hear,
The Huns intend to ask for more
Before they bolt across the Rhine.’
I watched them toddle through the door—
These impotent old friends of mine.
