In another column, footsore Curly Hatton Groaned at the thought of marching any more. His legs weren’t built for marching and they knew it, Butterball-legs under a butterball-body. The plump good-tempered face with its round eyes Blue and astonished as a china-doll’s, Stared at the road ahead and hated it Because there was so much of it ahead And all of it so dry. He didn’t mind The rest so much. He didn’t even mind Being the one sure necessary joke Of the whole regiment. He’d always been A necessary joke⁠—fat people were. Fat babies always were supposed to laugh. Fat little boys had fingers poked at them. And, even with the road, and being fat, You had a good time in this funny war, Considering everything, and one thing most.