He wanted to get transferred, he wanted to be Back with the company, back with the Eastern voices, Back where nobody called him “Bull Run Jack” And snickered at him for shaving every two days. He’d written about it and Father knew a congressman But nothing would happen⁠—he’d never get away, He’d stay being Bull Run Jack till the end of the war And march through acres of hostile Tennessee mud Till his legs dropped off, and never get to be Corporal. He was sick of the war and the mud and the Western faces. He hated the sight of his Illinois uniform. He was sorry for himself. He felt with a vague Soft blur of self-pity that he was really quite brave, And if people only knew, they’d do something about it.