Armies of fluffed dandies, dancing with bags
Of stuff they breath in motion, puff so stale
A gas, panting like bantam boys’ queer street,
You rig the hatch to pop and spill the pail.
Conjuring no fancy legerdemain,
Direct in speech and eye and punching short,
To stand, not to abandon squat, suffer
No fools, no niggling words nor sly retort.
That’s how the dead heroes, crispy and done,
Attain a breadth of sky to spread perfume!
The jacks warbling overhead, choking,
Salute as bombed birds do. It’s standing room.