And so when he reached my bed
The General made a stand:
” My brave young fellow,” he said,
” I would shake your hand.”
So I lifted my arm, the right,
With never a hand at all;
Only a stump, a sight
Fit to appal.
” Well, well. Now that’s too bad!
That’s sorrowful luck,” he said;
” But there! You give me, my lad,
The left instead.”
So from under the blankets rim
I raised and showed him the other,
A snag as ugly and grim
As its ugly brother.
He looked at each jagged wrist;
He looked but he did not speak;
And then he bent down and kissed
Me on either cheek.
You wonder now I don’t mind
I hadn’t a hand to offer. . . .
They tell me (you know I’m blind)
‘Twas Grand-père Joffre.
bdabbott 