The Last Cigarette
He'd been out of the line
For his Blighty leave
And had marched up
To the duckboards
But before he could
Start the last trudge forward
He need a cigarette
So he propped on his rifle
And tried to roll one out
But his hands were shaking
So much he couldn't get it done
So he picked himself up
And went forward anyway.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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