So Davies Wrote: "This Leaves Me In The Pink." Then Scrawled His Name: "Your Loving Sweetheart, Willie." With Crosses For A Hug. he'd Had A Drink Of Rum And Tea; And, Though The Barn Was Chilly, For Once His Blood Ran Warm; He Had Pay To Spend. Winter Was Passing; Soon The Year Would Mend. He Couldn't Sleep That Night. Stiff In The Dark He Groaned And Thought Of Sundays At The Farm, When he'd Go Out As Cheerful As A Lark In His Best Suit To Wander Arm-In-Arm With Brown-Eyed Gwen, And Whisper In Her Ear The Simple, Silly Things She Liked To Hear. And Then He Thought: To-Morrow Night We Trudge Up To The Trenches, And My Boots Are Rotten. Five Miles Of Stodgy Clay And Freezing Sludge, And Everything But Wretchedness Forgotten. To-Night He's In The Pink; But Soon He'll Die. And Still The War Goes On; He Don't Know Why.