Training

Toward a village in the rear

Four bombardiers were set to go

They couldn’t have been dustier

From proverbial head to toe

They looked upon the vasty plain

Talking of the old days lightly

And barely turned around again

When a large shell coughed politely

Class of ‘16 all of them

Spoke of what’s gone not what’s nighing

Thus wore on the asceticism

That trained them in the art of dying

Guillaume Apollinaire