I stood upon a high place, And saw, below, many devils Running, leaping, And carousing in sin. Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. Round and round they sped. A sword from the sky, Smote him, And he was dead. And the affrightened steed ran on alone, Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. A frield where a thousand corpses lie. Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind.