Jerry MacMullen, the millionaire, Driving a red-meat bus out there -- How did he win his Croix de Guerre? Bless you, that's all old stuff: Beast of a night on the Verdun road, Jerry stuck with a woeful load, Stalled in the mud where the red lights glowed, Prospect devilish tough.
"Little Priscilla" he called his car, Best of our battered bunch by far, Branded with many a bullet scar, Yet running so sweet and true. Jerry he loved her, knew her tricks; Swore: "She's the beat of the best big six, And if ever I get in a deuce of a fix Priscilla will pull me through."
"Looks pretty rotten right now," says he; "Hanged if the devil himself could see. Priscilla, it's up to you and me To show 'em what we can do." Seemed that Priscilla just took the word; Up with a leap like a horse that's spurred, On with the joy of a homing bird, Swift as the wind she flew.
Shell-holes shoot at them out of the night; A lurch to the left, a wrench to the right, Hands grim-gripping and teeth clenched tight, Eyes that glare through the dark. "Priscilla, you're doing me proud this day; Hospital's only a league away, And, honey, I'm longing to hit the hay, So hurry, old girl. . . . But hark!"
Howl of a shell, harsh, sudden, dread; Another . . . another. . . . "Strike me dead If the Huns ain't strafing the road ahead So the convoy can't get through! A barrage of shrap, and us alone; Four rush-cases -- you hear 'em moan? Fierce old messes of blood and bone. . . . Priscilla, what shall we do?"
Again it seems that Priscilla hears. With a rush and a roar her way she clears, Straight at the hell of flame she steers, Full at its heart of wrath. Fury of death and dust and din! Havoc and horror! She's in, she's in; She's almost over, she'll win, she'll win! Woof! Crump! right in the path.