1914, the troops knew the new war. Kept their heads below the sandbags, Knelt for days in flooding zigzags Of death; Sometimes the rats would aid Decomposition. Out there, the enemy huddles Likewise, and each mission Is to blast the faceless villains With good aim, but not good vision. Frost

What will I do with satan’s thorn Lodged deep in weakest access point? No pill to take No treatment makes It well, no method has supplied A cure, Steps stumble; Backward falls The soldier, boldly with a limp But limping on He goes, he goes, A carefully crafted grin All