Shapes of Clay

You 're grayer than one would have thought you:

The climate you have over there

In the East has apparently brought you

Disorders affecting the hair,

Which—pardon me—seems a thought spare.

You'll not take offence at my giving

Expression to notions like these.

You might have been stronger if living

Out here in our sanative breeze.

It's unhealthy here for disease.

No, I'm not as plump as a pullet.

But that's the old wound, you see.

Remember my paunching a bullet?—

And how that it didn't agree

With—well, honest hardtack for me.

Just pass me the wine—I've a helly

And horrible kind of drouth!

When a fellow has that in his belly

Which didn't go in at his mouth

He's hotter than all Down South!

Great Scott! what a nasty day that was—

When every galoot in our crack

Division who didn't lie flat was

Dissuaded from further attack

By the bullet's felicitous whack.

'Twas there that our major slept under

Some cannon of ours on the crest,

Till they woke him by stilling their thunder,

And he cursed them for breaking his rest,

And died in the midst of his jest.

That night—it was late in November—

The dead seemed uncommonly chill

To the touch; and one chap I remember

Who took it exceedingly ill

When I dragged myself over his bill.

Well, comrades, I'm off now—good morning.

Your talk is as pleasant as pie,

But, pardon me, one word of warning:

Speak little of self, say I.

That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye.