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Robert W Service - A Casualty
Work rating: Medium

That boy I took in the car last night,
With the body that awfully sagged away,
And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,
And the poor hands folded and cold as clay —
Oh, I`ve thought and I`ve thought of him all the day.

For the weary old doctor says to me:
"He`ll only last for an hour or so.
Both of his legs below the knee
Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,

And please remember, he doesn`t know."
So I tried to drive with never a jar;
And there was I cursing the road like mad,
When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:
"Tell me, old chap, have I `copped it` bad?"
So I answers "No," and he says, "I`m glad."

"Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two
Life`s so splendid, I hate to go.
There`s so much good that a chap might do,
And I`ve fought from the start and I`ve suffered so.
`Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know."

"Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,
And I passed him a cheery word or two;
But he didn`t answer for many a mile,
So just as the hospital hove in view,
Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"

Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;
And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;
"Thank you — you`re far too kind," says he:
"I`m awfully comfy — stay . . . let`s see:
I fancy my blanket`s come unrolled —
My feet, please wrap `em — they`re cold . . . they`re cold."
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