 | War poems |  |
III
And I—ah, mine's a bitter case indeed;
You call me slacker, coward, what you will—
I have a patent duty to fulfil
By my white soul whose promptings I must heed:
It's not my fault if heroes choose to bleed,
Blood I abhor, and no man's blood I'll spill,
My conscience simply will not let me kill—
The Sixth Commandment's plain for all to read.
You call me slacker, coward, what you will—
I have a patent duty to fulfil
By my white soul whose promptings I must heed:
It's not my fault if heroes choose to bleed,
Blood I abhor, and no man's blood I'll spill,
My conscience simply will not let me kill—
The Sixth Commandment's plain for all to read.
71
Clearly, who fights is either wicked or mad,
And rage and malice are the spawn of hell;
No quarrel have I with Germans or with Turks:
I'm single—yes! Profession? I used to sell
Cats' meat before the war; but times being bad
I've taken a job at a munition works.
And rage and malice are the spawn of hell;
No quarrel have I with Germans or with Turks:
I'm single—yes! Profession? I used to sell
Cats' meat before the war; but times being bad
I've taken a job at a munition works.
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