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Poem	I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . dyin'. I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, I've been in many 'ot old `do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well. -- Your werry lovin' Micky." I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . a decent job in dyin'.
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