After reading the article

By one Jessie Pope

I swore at the vicar

I spat in the street

I drank in the pub

Said "we're all dead meat."

One week of furlough

From the hell that's below

I turn away helpers, doctors, and all;

Big Bertha's still firing down here in the hall

She's blasting our flesh, even the devil'd fall.

But look in the papers it's pure fantasy:

No blood, no stench, no fear, no dread.

She's feeding them lies,

No respect for the dead

Turning the truth

Right onto its head.

She's spinning them tales,

When she's writing of war, 

She hasn't the faintest

What it's all for.

She writes as if it's only a game

For knights in white satin

Not men driven insane

Ten minutes at the front - 

God! She'd not think the same.