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
