The cymbals crash,
And the dancers walk,
With long white stockings
And arms of chalk,
Butterfly skirts,
And white breasts bare,
And shadows of dead men
Watching ’em there.
Shadows of dead men
Stand by the wall,
Watching the fun
Of the Victory Ball.
They do not reproach,
Because they know,
If they’re forgotten
It’s better so.
Under the dancing
Feet are the graves
Dazzle and motley,
In long white waves,
Brushed by the palm-fronds
Grapple and whirl
Ox-eyed matron,
And slim white girl.
Fat wet bodies
Go waddling by,
Girdled with satin,
Though God knows why:
Gripped by satyrs
In white and black.
With a fat wet hand
On the fat wet back.
See, there’s one child
Fresh from school,
Learning the ropes
As the old hands rule.
God! how the dead men
Chuckle again,
As she begs for a dose
Of the best cocaine.
What do you think
We should find”, said the shade,
“When the last shot echoed
And peace was made?”
“Christ” laughed the
Fleshless jaws of his friend,
“I thought they’d be
Praying for worlds to mend,
And making earth better
Or something damn silly
Like whitewashing hell
Or Picc-damn-dilly.
They’ve a sense of humour
These women of ours,
These exquisite lilies,
These fresh young flowers”.
“Pish”, said a statesman
Standing near,
I’m glad they keep busy
Their thoughts else where!
We mustn’t reproach ‘em
They’re young you see”
“Ah”, said the dead men,
“So were we”.
Victory! Victory!
On with the dance!
Back to the jungle
The new beasts prance!
God, how the dead men
Grin by the wall
Watching the fun
Of the Victory Ball.