MR ATKINS AT HOME.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume IV, Issue 956, 5 March 1917, Page 6

MR ATKINS AT HOME.

I'm scared—yus, I am—after two years of War. Oor blimc, it fair makes me quake. Jt's me fust toime on leave, and me nerve's on the raw, I stands at the corners and shake. The fog's someflnk fierce and it gives me the jumps, As the buses and taxis flit by; I'd sooner be back with the "Whizz Bangs" and I'Crumps" Than stand in the dark here and die!

I'd loike to be back in a dugout—l would— Of the shells and the bombs I've no fear; To be there with yer pals, well, it makes yer feel good, And I ain't got one pal over 'ere. This fog's wuss than gas when it catches yer breath, And yer longs for a "Verry"' to flare. This city's just plumb full of danger and death: I'm sure I'd be safer out fhere.

I made my .way down to the "Cart 'Orsc and Sheers," A pub my pal Bill always swore Was the best yer could find if yer 'untcd for years— Well, I ain't going to *unt any more. I only just arst for a bottle of stout. As I felt sort of kind of unnerved. I was told I could blinking well march myself out; It was ten, and I couldn't be served.

Oh, I wish I was Lack in my billets at Chocques In that beautiful drafty old barn. Instead of this town full of darkness and smoke. Why, I'd sooner be back on the Marne. At the station they're kind, and they'll carry yer pack, And, lummy, the canteen's a treat; Hut I sort of feel lonesome and want to get hack, 'Cos it's Hell when yer gets in the street.

It fair makes me sick to 'ear some blokes talk As to 'o\v we are losing the war. That the Army's no good, and the Navv's in bulk: Why, out there we just fighls—we don't jaw. They say there are thousands of blokes won't enlist— Conscientious objectors and wuss: .Why, the poor, silly blighters don't know what they've missed— It's far safer out there with us!

There's no place to go, and the shows are all packed. Though there's concerts for Tommies, they say: I went to one once, but 'struth. It's a fact, We're better out there any day! The darkness is chrome; it gives me a pain: Y'er bumped and y'er shoved till y'er j sore, Y'er trampled to death in the Tubes and the train, Y'er can't get a drink, anil it's puffeckly plain That yours truly don't put in for Home leave again, 'Least not till the end of the war. - R. L., in the "Observer "