More Songs by the Fighting Men
For me no more the secret cult
Of "Jampot," "Hairbrush," "Pitcher," "Ball,"
Holds fear; the erratic catapult
Has lost all power to appal.
With many a brother anarchist
By night I prowl from ten till one,
Thirsting to keep a bloody tryst
With some rotund unready Hun.
So runs my life, but when the end
Comes on the wings of shot or shell,
No tears will save, nor loving friend,
For me there waits the bomber's Hell,
Where with the unsubstantial shades
In groves where shells eternal fall
I'll fill Satanic hand-grenades
With fourth-dimension ammonal.
Flanders, 1915.
94
