Two poets, Oxford men, both of them,
met by chance on the field of woe.
They were prepared to charge the Boche
when they heard the whistle blow.
For King and Country, to gain a yard,
to bleed and suffer like some god.
One would be taken, the other left

A mortar Shell made its quick work.
The lad had scarcely time to scream.
His fellow stared, in shock, to see.
A pink mist where Clive used to be.
The charge soon faltered in fading light
The survivors lay low in Niemanns land.
A line from Matthew dogged each breath:
One was taken, the other left.