Back from the war, why didn’t you say,
No telegram. I would have expected that.
That’s what anybody would expect
Of their husband of twenty two years.
Back from the war effort, more like.
Our boy, gagging in a muddy trench
In some corner of a foreign field
And me, doing the requisitions in Halifax.
There’s only this bit of stew
Left over from lunch, and no beer.
I’d have sent out for some had I known.
I’d have baked some bread.
Light the fire Vera, it’s cold in here
And damp. What news of the boy?
Is he alive? Is he well?
Will he be home for Christmas?
There’s been no news of any good
Sixty thousand dead on one day, they say –
A million more on both sides
And no beer for my boys.
