Mudmouth’s Psalm (Passchendaele, 1917)

[Verse 1] August’s rain wrote psalms in the shell-scabbed clay, “Over the bags!” — but the Salient sucked us halfway. Kilt weighed a ton, trench foot’s choir on the duckboards sang, “Jerry’s got whizz-bangs tuned to Blighty’s bloody hymn sheet.” [Chorus] We’re the Black Watch’s ghosts in a mudmouth’s creed, Drowning in craters where the cushy gods feed. Passchendaele’s joke? Three yards for a thousand dead— Our tartan’s the earth where the brass hats tread. [Verse 2] Sarge’s whistle cracked like a padre’s last prayer, “Fix swords!” — but the mire kissed steel with despair. Tommy and Fritz swapped fags through the wire’s teeth, ‘Til the bigwigs roared, “Take Polygon Wood beneath!” [Chorus] We’re the Black Watch’s ghosts in a mudmouth’s creed, Drowning in craters where the cushy gods feed. Passchendaele’s joke? Three yards for a thousand dead— Our tartan’s the earth where the brass hats tread. [Bridge] MO tagged toes in a sack, “Blighty for you!” But the Red Hackle sank where the corpse-lights grew. “Gallant push!” cooed the Times—we knew the truth too… Passchendaele’s won? Just a rat-king’s stew. [Outro] December’s frost stitches the Flanders shroud, Pipes hum “The Land o’ the Leal” through the sludge. Auld Ypres sighs—we’re still here, damned and proud… Black Watch bones bloom where the bigwigs grudged.