Blighters
The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;
‘We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!’
I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag—time tunes, or ‘Home, sweet Home’,
And there’d be no more jokes in Music—halls
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
