After Bourlon Wood - Helen Dircks

In one of London’s most exclusive haunts,
Amid the shining lights and table ware,
We sat, where meagre Mistress Ration flaunts
Herself in syncopated music there.

He was a Major twenty-six years old,
Back from the latest party of the Hun,
He said ,”The beastly blighters had me bowled
Almost before the picnic had begun.’

‘By Jove! I was particularly cross.
I had looked forward to a little fling!
(These censored wine lists have me at a loss.)
but what have you been doing, dear old thing?

‘I go to bed,’ I said, ‘at half-past-ten.
And lead the life of any simple Waac –
Alas! A meatless, sweetless one – and then
I have a little joy when you come back.

‘But mostly life is dull upon this isle,
And is inclined to be a trifle limp.’
‘I hate it, he said, ‘the Hun to cramp my style,
We’ll try and give it just a little crimp.’

‘On Saturday, ‘I cried. ‘we stop at one:
to help you with crimping would be grand!’
‘Sorry.’ He said, ‘it simply can’t be done.
I’ve got a most unpleasant job on hand.’

‘Unpleasant job!’ I asked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I would,’ he said. ‘avoid it if I could,
But Georgius Rex, it seems, is awfully keen
To give me the M.C. for being good.

Helen Dircks