The year is, nineteen hundred and thirteen.

From a gypsy’s, mongrel dog, I was weaned.

I am eighteen months old, a crossbred bitch.

The army found me, they call me Titch.

I am loved at last and have found a home.

No more, will I be injured, with a stone.

Fed six times a week, it really is great.

No food on Sunday, that, I hate.

It takes three months, for me, to properly train.

But I am pleased to do it, there is no strain.

My job is not difficult, it really is good fun.

I’m not even frightened, by the bang of a gun.

Through bogs and streams, I go as quick as I can.

Between two handlers, at different points, I ran.

My handlers adore me, train me and shows me how.

The only stipulation is, I must do it now.

I find it, I carry it, to where I am told.

My only reward, is a cuddle and hold.

War, War, War is a word I hear a lot.

I don’t know the meaning, I don’t give a jot.

Over the water we go, a long distance away.

Now is the time, I must earn my pay.

My handler, shouts’, “Titch away”, to my other handler, I run.

It’s only two hundred yards, it seems like fun.

Messages I have to carry, from end to end.

Through mud and craters, my way I wend.

Guns are barking, shells are falling, round my head.

The message has to be delivered, my handler said.

The rain just keeps falling, the mud is real thick.

The cannons keep firing, and I go really quick.

This I must do, all through the day.

I suddenly realise, this isn’t just play.

I am plastered in mud, I cannot get clean.

I whimper and whine, don’t they realise what I mean.

My job comes first, I know that is right.

But can I keep going, all through the night?

My head I lay down, I really must sleep.

But the fleas bite and round my body creep.

I itch, I scratch, not a good night.

I really do look, a miserable sight.

There’s plenty of work to be done, it really is so.

Again, across that mud and barbed wire, I go.

I am torn by the wire, in many a place.

On my body and legs, a lot in the face.

My good life has gone, I wish, I weren’t here.

But work has to go on, now, I know fear.

My handler looks after me, as best as he can.

Worrying about me, since this fighting began.

The time has come, to go once more.

Another message to deliver, it’s now a big chore

To my collar, the message, is now fixed.

It is time to work, and me that is risked.

The order is then given, away, I am sent

Running fast, dodging the wire, going hellbent.

I suddenly fall over, I’ve been shot in the spine.

My legs won’t keep moving, not everything’s fine.

I whimper, I cry, for attention I bark.

This message, won’t, be delivered, I’m alone in the dark.