Poem - Tom Skeyhill

My Little Wet Home in the Trench

By Tom Skeyhill

I've a little wet home in the trench,
Which the rain-storms continually drench;
        Blue sky overhead,
        Mud and clay for a bed,
And a stone that we use for a bench.
Bully beef and hard biscuits we chew;
        Shells crackle and scare,
        But no place can compare
With my little wet home in the trench.

Our friends in the trench o'er the way
Seem to know that we've come here to stay;
        They rush and they shout,
        But they can't get us out,
Though there's no dirty work they don't play.
They rushed us a few nights ago,
But we don't like intruders, and so
        Some departed quite sore,
        Others sleep evermore,
Near my little wet home in the trench.

So hurrah for the mud and the clay,
It's the road to "Der Tag"—that's "The Day."
        When we enter Berlin,
        That big city of sin,
Where we'll make the fat Berliner pay,
We'll remember the cold, and the frost,
When we scour the fat land of the Bhost;
        There'll be shed then, I fear
        Redder stuff than a tear
For my little wet home in the trench.