There was no warmth in our sleeping bags Spring rain sluiced down the dark and through our tents Decaying tents from the Second World War The Corps would spend no money on tents or us
But we were young, and playing at war was fun We kept our rifles dry but nothing else And yarned throughout the cold and soggy nights Long days and nights mud-fighting the VC
Sometimes an hour or two of soggy sleep But in my pocket, warm words from my favorite poet