Settling his black string-tie with big, tanned hands, And, then, incredibly, going back to jail. He did not think much about what he’d done But sat himself as comfortably as might be On the cold bricks of that dejected guard-room And slowly started cutting another quid With a worn knife that had a brown bone-handle.

He lived all through the war and died long after, This Mr. Brua I see. His last advice To numerous nephews was “Keep out of trouble, But if you’re in it, chew and don’t be hasty, Just do whatever’s likeliest at hand.”

I like your way of talking, Mr. Brua, And if there still are people interested In cutting literary clothes for heroes They might do worse than mention your string-tie.