 | War poems |  |
72
It
“England has an Achilles' heel.”
—Hindenburg
—Hindenburg
Out of iron and blood
And flame of the nether pit,
And fifty sorts of mud,
They fashioned the great god It.
And flame of the nether pit,
And fifty sorts of mud,
They fashioned the great god It.
And as he frowned on high
They bade him speak them luck,
And shouted solidly—
“Hoch, hoch! Hoch, hoch—Von Kluck!”
They bade him speak them luck,
And shouted solidly—
“Hoch, hoch! Hoch, hoch—Von Kluck!”
But dumb and sour and grim,
He eyed them haut en bas:
They cried, “Let's flatter him—
Moltke! hurrah, hurrah!”
He eyed them haut en bas:
They cried, “Let's flatter him—
Moltke! hurrah, hurrah!”
Yet, heavy and dull as lead,
No sign might he evince,
“We'll tickle him up!” they said—
“Heil, heil! Heil, heil—Kronprinz!”
No sign might he evince,
“We'll tickle him up!” they said—
“Heil, heil! Heil, heil—Kronprinz!”
73
Deafer than any stone,
Dumber than any stock,
Frowned he. They yelled, “Our own
Von Falkenhayn, hoch, hoch!”
Dumber than any stock,
Frowned he. They yelled, “Our own
Von Falkenhayn, hoch, hoch!”
Yea, he sat there like sin
Knowing nor sense nor wit,
Till the dry throat of Berlin
Gasped “Hindenburg is It!”
Knowing nor sense nor wit,
Till the dry throat of Berlin
Gasped “Hindenburg is It!”
Then did It speak. Like steel
His words—“Beware the Foe
For your Archilles' heel
Is her Achilles' toe!”
His words—“Beware the Foe
For your Archilles' heel
Is her Achilles' toe!”
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