War was an endless procession of dirty boots. Filling pitchers and emptying out the slops, And making the cornhusk beds for the unshaved men Who came in tired⁠—but never too tired to wonder⁠— Look in the eyes⁠—and hands⁠—and suppose you didn’t, They didn’t like it⁠—and if you did, it was nothing⁠— But they always⁠—and rough sometimes⁠—and drunk now and then⁠— And a couple of nice ones⁠—well, it didn’t mean nothing. It was merely hard to carry the heavy pails When you didn’t get fed enough and got up so soon. But, now the army was moving, there wouldn’t be So many men or beds or slops for a while And that meant something. She sighed and dabbed with her broom.