  The volunteers in vomit-colour Go forth to shoot the Lamb of God. Their leaden faces redden to a blazing comet-colour And they sweat as they plod. Parson and Poet Laureate, Professor, Grocer, Don— This one as fat as Ehud, that (poor dear!) would grow the more he ate, Yet more a skeleton. Some have piles and some have goitres, Most of them have Bright’s disease, Uric acid has made them flaccid and one gouty hero loiters, Anchylosed in toes and knees. ’Tis Duty drags their aching carrion Through the rain and through the mud. England calls! From Windsor walls sounds the once Coburgian clarion, Screaming: Empire, Home and Blood! |
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