You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat, And eat three pounds of sausages at a go, Or only bread and pickle for a week, And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
While the sybaritic top brass toss meat to their dogs, or query the freshness of their croissants, ordinary soldiers wolf down the rations in the trenches they storm.
Actually, it was the oddest-looking food I'd ever seen—the meat was cut in the shape of triangles, the bread was shaped like cones and cylinders and the puddings, like flutes.