A poem: "General Shute." The General inspecting the trenches, exclaimed with a horrified shout, 'I refuse to command a Division, Which leaves its excreta about.', But nobody took any notice, No one was prepared to refute, That the presence of shit was congenial, compared to the presence of Shute, And certain responsible critics, Made haste to reply to his words, Observing that his staff advisors, consisted entirely of turds. For shit may be shot at odd corners and paper supplied there to suit, But a shit would be shot without mourners, If somebody shot that shit Shute.