War

The songs I’ve sung are futile,
Of little futile things,
Of foolish dreams and fancies
On feeble faltering wings;
So I will cease my singing,
And take you by the hand,
Down days and darksome ditches
To the night of No-man’s-land.
Where the day is full of horror
That words may never tell,
And the twilight full of terror,
And life is laughing hell.
Where your body will be filth-clad,
And your soul will fade away;
Where you’ll curse your only brother
As you plod the clutching clay.
You’ll scramble in the muck-heap
To soothe your hunger-ache,
With your silly heart aflutter,
And your silly soul aquake.
And when your heart is broken,
And you care not if you die,
You’ll keep on carrying on
Till self-pity makes you cry;
Till you take the man who loved you
And rake him through the mud,
And scoop a shallow hollow,
With your hands all smeared with blood,
And throw him in, and leave him;
And you’ll laugh for – God knows why!
And you’ll keep on carrying on,
(Or God loves you, and you die),
‘Mong the filth and fear and hunger
In strife to fight and fend,
From ages unbeginning
To ages beyond end.