Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.128

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	1914-18 The Garden called Gethsemane In Picardy it was, And there the people came to see The English soldiers pass. We used to pass -- we used to pass Or halt, as it might be, And ship our masks in case of gas Beyond Gethsemane. The Garden called Gethsemane, It held a pretty lass, But all the time she talked to me I prayed my cup might pass. The officer sat on the chair, The men lay on the grass, And all the time we halted there I prayed my cup might pass. It didn't pass -- it didn't pass -- It didn't pass from me. I drank it when we met the gas Beyond Gethsemane.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required