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Robert W Service - Priscilla
Work rating: Low

Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire,
Driving a red-meat bus out there —
How did he win his Croix de Guerre?
Bless you, that`s all old stuff:
Beast of a night on the Verdun road,
Jerry stuck with a woeful load,
Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed,
Prospect devilish tough.

"Little Priscilla" he called his car,
Best of our battered bunch by far,
Branded with many a bullet scar,
Yet running so sweet and true.
Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks;
Swore: "She`s the beat of the best big six,
And if ever I get in a deuce of a fix
Priscilla will pull me through."

"Looks pretty rotten right now," says he;
"Hanged if the devil himself could see.
Priscilla, it`s up to you and me
To show `em what we can do."
Seemed that Priscilla just took the word;
Up with a leap like a horse that`s spurred,
On with the joy of a homing bird,
Swift as the wind she flew.

Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night;
A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right,
Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight,
Eyes that glare through the dark.
"Priscilla, you`re doing me proud this day;
Hospital`s only a league away,
And, honey, I`m longing to hit the hay,
So hurry, old girl. . . . But hark!"

Howl of a shell, harsh, sudden, dread;
Another . . . another. . . . "Strike me dead
If the Huns ain`t strafing the road ahead
So the convoy can`t get through!
A barrage of shrap, and us alone;
Four rush-cases — you hear `em moan?
Fierce old messes of blood and bone. . . .
Priscilla, what shall we do?"

Again it seems that Priscilla hears.
With a rush and a roar her way she clears,
Straight at the hell of flame she steers,
Full at its heart of wrath.
Fury of death and dust and din!
Havoc and horror! She`s in, she`s in;
She`s almost over, she`ll win, she`ll win!
Woof! Crump! right in the path.

Little Priscilla skids and stops,
Jerry MacMullen sways and flops;
Bang in his map the crash he cops;
Shriek from the car: "Mon Dieu!"
One of the blessés hears him say,
Just at the moment he faints away:
"Reckon this isn`t my lucky day,
Priscilla, it`s up to you."

Sergeant raps on the doctor`s door;
"Car in the court with couchés  four;
Driver dead on the dashboard floor;
Strange how the bunch got here."
"No," says the Doc, "this chap`s alive;
But tell me, how could a man contrive
With both arms broken, a car to drive?
Thunder of God! it`s queer."

Same little blessé  makes a spiel;
Says he: "When I saw our driver reel,
A Strange Shape leapt to the driving wheel
And sped us safe through the night."
But Jerry, he says in his drawling tone:
"Rats! Why, Priscilla came in on her own.
Bless her, she did it alone, alone. . . ."
Hanged if I know who`s right.
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