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The Garden called Gethsemane,

It held a pretty lass,

But all the time she talked to me

I prayed my cup might pass.

The officer sat on the chair,

The men lay on the grass,

And all the time we halted there

I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass-

It didn’t pass from me.

I drank it when we met the gas

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and so I knew

the worms had got his brains at last.

There was one thing that I might do

to starve the worms; I racked my head

for healthy things and quoted Maud.

His grin got worse and I could see

he sneered at passion’s purity.

He stank so badly, though we were great chums

I had to leave him; then rats ate his thumbs