The war was hard as rock salt, like the man Whose mother named him Brennan, meaning “brave” Whose father gave him not but discipline He dealt with toe of boot or heel of hand
The army traded Brennan name and age For uniform, and gun, and belt, and boot And took him ‘cross the ocean, Europe-bound To fight in France, to defend royal land
In trench he lay for months in icey mud And heard the far-off sounds of battle rage He smelled the acrid fumes of festered death And lived with untold horrors few could stand
‘Til one night, German bullets found his side Aloft in No Man’s Land, his body culled And bundled off to mend in medic’s care The war would go with one more post unmanned
