TO MY BATH

This lyric may be bad, O Muse, But do not press on me too hard; In times of war you must excuse Somewhat your bard. A dug-out where I have to bend My back, and even lodge my knees Against the roof, would suit our friend Diogenes— But hardly seems a meet abode For any would-be laureate Who’ll sing, ad lib., an epic—ode— Or hymn of hate. Consider my attempt to write Iambic tetrametric lines As influenced by gelignite And bombs—and mines. No high falutin’ stilted phrase, No feeble tribute of a “sub.,” Can ever adequately praise Thee, dearest Tub. Perchance I’m sun-scorched: then I sigh To hear thy crystal waters lap And trickle o’er my toes when I Turn on the tap. If blizzards fresh from Samothrace Are mingling with December snows, When icicles in clusters grace “My youthful hose A world too wide for my shrunk shanks”—— Then I, nostalgia stricken, dream, And see thy white enamelled banks Through clouds of steam. Just as when corybantic drakes (Or ducks, just as the case may be), With clamorous quack, seek limpid lakes, So seek I thee. But baths are not our rations in Gallipoli. ’Tis too far south— “The bubble reputation’s in The cannon’s mouth.” H. H. U., Northamptonshire Regt.