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Poem	Of all the boys with whom I fought In Africa and Sicily, Bill was the bravest of the lot In our dare-devil Company. That lad would rather die than yield; His gore he glorified to spill, And so in every battlefield A hero in my eyes was Bill. Then when the bloody war was done, He moseyed back to our home town, And there, a loving mother's son, Like other kids he settled down. His old girl seemed a shade straight-laced, For when I called my buddy "Bill," She looked at me with some distaste, Suggesting that his name was "Will." And then he had to get engaged, And took unto himself a wife; And so inevitably caged, He settled down to wedded life. He introduced me to his Missis, But oh I thought her rather silly, For in between their frequent kisses She called my hard-boiled here: "Willie." Now he has long forgot the War, The which he did a lot to win, And feeling full of ginger for He's happy Pop of cherubs twin. Yet with his air: "Don't care a damn," On Main Street he's my hero still . . . As proud he wheels a double pram What guy has got the guts of Bill!
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