It heard the Song of the Gunner-Dead die out to a sullen roar: But NakÉd Truth said never a word; and Eye peered down no more. For Eye had seen; and Truth had judged ... and It might not pass the Door! And now, like a dog in the dark, It shrank from the voice of a man It knew:— “There are empty seats at the Banquet-board, but there’s never a seat for you; For they will not drink with a coward soul, the stark red men who slew. There’s meat and to spare, at the Killer-Feasts where Thor’s swung hammer twirls; There’s beer and enough, in the Free Canteen where the Endless Smoke upcurls; There are lips and lips, for the Killer-Men, in the Hall of the Dancing-Girls. There’s a place for any that passes clean—but for you there’s never a place: The Endless Smoke would blacken your lips, and the Girls would spit in your face; And the Beer and the Meat go sour on your guts—for you died the death of disgrace. We were pals on earth: but by God’s brave Son and the bomb that I reached too late, I damn the day and I blast the hour when first I called you mate; And I’d sell my soul for one of my feet, to hack you from the gate— To hack you hence to the lukewarm hells that the priest-made ovens heat, Or the faked-pearl heaven of pulpit gods, where the sheep-faced angels bleat And the halo’s rim is as hard to the head as the gilded floor to the feet.” It heard the stumps of Its one-time mate go waddling back to the Feast. And, once and again, It whined for the Meat; ere It slunk, like a tongue-lashed beast, To the tinselled heaven of pulpit gods and the tinselled hell of their priest. |