A TRIP-WIRE.

If you're sneaking around on a night patrol,

Trying to miss each cock-eyed hole,

And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul —

It's a trip-wire.

If you think there is n't a thing around

Except the desolate, shell-torn ground,

And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound —

It's a trip-wire.

If you know a murmur would give the alarm,

And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm,

And then you go falling all over the farm —

It's a trip-wire.

If it's cold and it's rainy and everything's mud,

And you're groping your way through a nice little flood,

And you stand on your head with an elegant thud —

It's a trip-wire.

When silence is golden ( for “news” is the quest ),

And you're returning and stepping your best,

And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest —

It's a trip-wire.