Nothing Wasted

A soldier brave,
in trench and grave
whining with barbs and flies,
saw huge and white
and glistening bright
a Maggot against the skies.

"Maggot," said he,
"what memory
is left of what you eat?
What will," asked he,
"remain of me
when you have had your meat?"

It blotted out
the mud about,
where thousands met their ends.
It wriggled in,
its bristly grin
reeking of fallen friends.

It stretched up tall;
its slimy pall
took on a Portland tint.
A well-fed few
their poppies threw,
and stood their tedious stint.

With rippling gulp
of sated pulp,
the Maggot belched a laugh:
"I don't leave much
Except for such
As makes a cenotaph."

Nosher Blighty