I’d as leave be surrounded
By Hades’ own hinges
As to swallow confounded
Gulps of oringes.
I’d rather go gaily
From my little group
Than be dieted daily
On nothing but soup.
When I am nice
They fetch a custard,
Or some sort of ice
Resembling mustard.
Or, having surrendered
And played a martyr,
I may be tendered
A sip of wartyr.
Look, Doc–man alive this
Is not to be rude,
But I’ll never survive this
Unless I have food!
by Ray Romine Saturday, February 24, 1945
