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DEAD MUSICIANS
III
For when my brain is on their track,
In slangy speech I call them back.
With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.
"Another little drink won't do us any harm."
I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;
And see their faces crowding round
To the sound of the syncopated beat.
They've got such jolly things to tell,
Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat. . . .
*****
And so the song breaks off; and I'm alone.
They're dead. . . . For God's sake stop that gramophone.
59
