The Target

Ivor Gurney

I shot him, and it had to be

One of us! “Twas him or me.

Couldn’t be helped,’ and

    none can blame

Me, for you would do the

    same.

My mother, she can’t sleep

    for fear

Of what might be

    a-happening here

To me. Perhaps it might be

    best

To die, and set her fears at

    rest.

For worst is worst, and

    worry’s done.

Perhaps he was the only

    son . . .

Yet God keeps still, and

    does not say

A word of guidance any way.

Well, if they get me, first I’ll

    find

That boy, and tell him all

    my mind,

And see who felt the bullet

    worst,

And ask his pardon, if I

    durst.

All’s a tangle. Here’s my job.

A man might rave, or shout,

    or sob;

And God He takes no sort of

    heed.

This is a bloody mess

    indeed.

—1917