Poetry Archives

If I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,
  I’d live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
  You’d see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
  Reading the Roll of Honour. “Poor young chap,”
I’d say—”I used to know his father well;
  Yes, we’ve lost heavily in this last scrap.”
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
  I’d toddle safely home and die—in bed.