The Victory Ball

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 men...