THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM Written in the Trenches

OUT here the dogs of war run loose, Their whipper-in is Death; Across the spoilt and battered fields We hear their sobbing breath. The fields where grew the living corn Are heavy with our dead; Yet still the fields at home are green And I have heard it said: That— There are crocuses at Nottingham! Wild crocuses at Nottingham! Blue crocuses at Nottingham! Though here the grass is red. There are little girls at Nottingham Who do not dread the boche, Young girls at school at Nottingham (Lord! how I need a wash!) There are little boys at Nottingham Who never hear a gun; There are silly fools at Nottingham Who think we’re here for fun. When— There are crocuses at Nottingham! Young crocus buds at Nottingham! Thousands of buds at Nottingham Ungathered by the Hun. But here we trample down the grass Into a purple slime; There lives no tree to give the birds House room in pairing time. We live in holes, like cellar rats, But through the noise and smell I often see those crocuses Of which the people tell. Why— There are crocuses at Nottingham! Bright crocuses at Nottingham! Real crocuses at Nottingham! Because we’re here in Hell.