Conversazione of Musical Instruments

IN the nebular effects of cigarette smoke,The eyes may be closed heavy or drowsing open,The iris drugged by the wine and the women,White arms, mouths of carmine, ankles so slenderYou might fear that they would snap candy-wise.In the nebular effects of cigarette smoke,Through the various hemispheres the eye turns,One of us is breathing out rhythmsFor the gratification of an audience.Animated in the hum of conversation,We achieve miracles.When the veneer is shed and the heart lain bareWe turn men’s thoughts to Heaven or to Hell—Cathedral Altar or the Brothel couch.Though it be in the nebular effects of cigarette smokeAnd the eyes may be closed heavy or drowsing open,The ear-drums beat electric-nimbleAnd the brain is their poor prone prisoner,When we breathe out our rhythms.

IN the nebular effects of cigarette smoke,

The eyes may be closed heavy or drowsing open,

The iris drugged by the wine and the women,

White arms, mouths of carmine, ankles so slender

You might fear that they would snap candy-wise.

In the nebular effects of cigarette smoke,Through the various hemispheres the eye turns,One of us is breathing out rhythmsFor the gratification of an audience.Animated in the hum of conversation,We achieve miracles.When the veneer is shed and the heart lain bareWe turn men’s thoughts to Heaven or to Hell—Cathedral Altar or the Brothel couch.

In the nebular effects of cigarette smoke,

Through the various hemispheres the eye turns,

One of us is breathing out rhythms

For the gratification of an audience.

Animated in the hum of conversation,

We achieve miracles.

When the veneer is shed and the heart lain bare

We turn men’s thoughts to Heaven or to Hell—

Cathedral Altar or the Brothel couch.

Though it be in the nebular effects of cigarette smokeAnd the eyes may be closed heavy or drowsing open,The ear-drums beat electric-nimbleAnd the brain is their poor prone prisoner,When we breathe out our rhythms.

Though it be in the nebular effects of cigarette smoke

And the eyes may be closed heavy or drowsing open,

The ear-drums beat electric-nimble

And the brain is their poor prone prisoner,

When we breathe out our rhythms.

Violin(virtuosity)A phosphorescent butterflyI creep into the hairOf those who are awareThat I divinely flutter by.Or I’m a vinous liquor spirting brightShivers of splintered glass into the night,Or shimmering I skateWhere lovers celebrateThe hour their captive passions, cooped with bars,Were freed, uncrumpled shirts beneath the stars—(Pale, weary breaths of paille-de-rizThe corsage of Semiramis).My notes are aromatic traceriesWherewith I swing my perfume through the treesFiercely exotic; fading on the breezeUntil my respiration failsAnd what was ambergrisMelts now to liquorice.I stagger on the airWith all my plumage bare,A galleon bereft of sails.Or I can be as vulgar as a music-hall in Paraguay,And I can jig and jig awayTo cynically flirtWith sentimental dirt;Veneered as candied peel,Or gilded fruit, I reelInto a singing cabaret.For there in my proximityThey listen to my creed,(And so I do not needTo preach my own sublimity).I imitate the flavour of vanilleTo give distinguished patronage the chill,And I can give neuralgia,Hysterics and nostalgiaTo counterfeit the gardens of Seville.I can creak as any sparrowWhich pricks the curveOf every nerveWith a throstle sharp and narrow.And I can be as raucous asA golden-spotted jaguarAnd I can be as glaucous asThe trees in Nicaragua.Drink in my subtle melodies,My chartreuse-tinted threnodies....

Violin(virtuosity)

A phosphorescent butterflyI creep into the hairOf those who are awareThat I divinely flutter by.Or I’m a vinous liquor spirting brightShivers of splintered glass into the night,Or shimmering I skateWhere lovers celebrateThe hour their captive passions, cooped with bars,Were freed, uncrumpled shirts beneath the stars—(Pale, weary breaths of paille-de-rizThe corsage of Semiramis).My notes are aromatic traceriesWherewith I swing my perfume through the treesFiercely exotic; fading on the breezeUntil my respiration failsAnd what was ambergrisMelts now to liquorice.I stagger on the airWith all my plumage bare,A galleon bereft of sails.Or I can be as vulgar as a music-hall in Paraguay,And I can jig and jig awayTo cynically flirtWith sentimental dirt;Veneered as candied peel,Or gilded fruit, I reelInto a singing cabaret.For there in my proximityThey listen to my creed,(And so I do not needTo preach my own sublimity).I imitate the flavour of vanilleTo give distinguished patronage the chill,And I can give neuralgia,Hysterics and nostalgiaTo counterfeit the gardens of Seville.I can creak as any sparrowWhich pricks the curveOf every nerveWith a throstle sharp and narrow.And I can be as raucous asA golden-spotted jaguarAnd I can be as glaucous asThe trees in Nicaragua.Drink in my subtle melodies,My chartreuse-tinted threnodies....

A phosphorescent butterfly

I creep into the hair

Of those who are aware

That I divinely flutter by.

Or I’m a vinous liquor spirting bright

Shivers of splintered glass into the night,

Or shimmering I skate

Where lovers celebrate

The hour their captive passions, cooped with bars,

Were freed, uncrumpled shirts beneath the stars—

(Pale, weary breaths of paille-de-riz

The corsage of Semiramis).

My notes are aromatic traceries

Wherewith I swing my perfume through the trees

Fiercely exotic; fading on the breeze

Until my respiration fails

And what was ambergris

Melts now to liquorice.

I stagger on the air

With all my plumage bare,

A galleon bereft of sails.

Or I can be as vulgar as a music-hall in Paraguay,

And I can jig and jig away

To cynically flirt

With sentimental dirt;

Veneered as candied peel,

Or gilded fruit, I reel

Into a singing cabaret.

For there in my proximity

They listen to my creed,

(And so I do not need

To preach my own sublimity).

I imitate the flavour of vanille

To give distinguished patronage the chill,

And I can give neuralgia,

Hysterics and nostalgia

To counterfeit the gardens of Seville.

I can creak as any sparrow

Which pricks the curve

Of every nerve

With a throstle sharp and narrow.

And I can be as raucous as

A golden-spotted jaguar

And I can be as glaucous as

The trees in Nicaragua.

Drink in my subtle melodies,

My chartreuse-tinted threnodies....

Violoncello(known more popularly asthe ’cello to rhyme with mellow-yellow)I am the waxen fruit of instruments;I drone till beads of perspiration breakUpon the foreheads of my audience.I swell tumultuous; my dullard soundsEbb platitudes in doleful indigo.Voluptuously blatant in my greed,I am the woman garbed in heliotrope,Whose bustle panics peacocks in the park.Some take my mellow notes for rosaries—So holy, steadfast, pure they seem to be.(Like dear Prince Albert on a promenade,Inspired apostle of the simple life,With all his homely virtues on parade).And I am music’s Edinburgh rock,A laxative caressing to the ear,A sanitary purge unto the sense;A sentimental background in the lifeOf modest daughter and domestic wife.

Violoncello(known more popularly asthe ’cello to rhyme with mellow-yellow)

I am the waxen fruit of instruments;I drone till beads of perspiration breakUpon the foreheads of my audience.I swell tumultuous; my dullard soundsEbb platitudes in doleful indigo.Voluptuously blatant in my greed,I am the woman garbed in heliotrope,Whose bustle panics peacocks in the park.Some take my mellow notes for rosaries—So holy, steadfast, pure they seem to be.(Like dear Prince Albert on a promenade,Inspired apostle of the simple life,With all his homely virtues on parade).And I am music’s Edinburgh rock,A laxative caressing to the ear,A sanitary purge unto the sense;A sentimental background in the lifeOf modest daughter and domestic wife.

I am the waxen fruit of instruments;

I drone till beads of perspiration break

Upon the foreheads of my audience.

I swell tumultuous; my dullard sounds

Ebb platitudes in doleful indigo.

Voluptuously blatant in my greed,

I am the woman garbed in heliotrope,

Whose bustle panics peacocks in the park.

Some take my mellow notes for rosaries—

So holy, steadfast, pure they seem to be.

(Like dear Prince Albert on a promenade,

Inspired apostle of the simple life,

With all his homely virtues on parade).

And I am music’s Edinburgh rock,

A laxative caressing to the ear,

A sanitary purge unto the sense;

A sentimental background in the life

Of modest daughter and domestic wife.

Chorus of Guitar and MandolineI snatch the silence whimpering(Nocturnal perfumes make me sneeze)My nostrils twitch; I snap the air,I twang along the cardboard breeze.I jump and rattle,Reel and prattleIn Andalusian orangeries.Now an elegant fandango,Now a lithe and lissome tango,Then I swoop like a flamingoOn a juicy-breasted mangoHidden in the noisy leafage of the Guadalquivir.

Chorus of Guitar and Mandoline

I snatch the silence whimpering(Nocturnal perfumes make me sneeze)My nostrils twitch; I snap the air,I twang along the cardboard breeze.I jump and rattle,Reel and prattleIn Andalusian orangeries.Now an elegant fandango,Now a lithe and lissome tango,Then I swoop like a flamingoOn a juicy-breasted mangoHidden in the noisy leafage of the Guadalquivir.

I snatch the silence whimpering

(Nocturnal perfumes make me sneeze)

My nostrils twitch; I snap the air,

I twang along the cardboard breeze.

I jump and rattle,

Reel and prattle

In Andalusian orangeries.

Now an elegant fandango,

Now a lithe and lissome tango,

Then I swoop like a flamingo

On a juicy-breasted mango

Hidden in the noisy leafage of the Guadalquivir.

HarpDrips of dear ineffectual water,April showers of pallid arsenic evaporating to unsubstantial air,I once melted the heart of Cuchulain and his warriorsAnd Tom Moore grew quite sentimental about me in Tara’s halls,Where my ripply waves of watery soundsTurned to thin strips of paper on the breeze.Now I can faint but to transparent moonsAnd the intensified weariness of stars.I can whimper the same faded melodiesWith their aroma of blurred cinnamon.But the warriors have tired of listening,For the Trocaderos call them with their Coon jazz-bands.

Harp

Drips of dear ineffectual water,April showers of pallid arsenic evaporating to unsubstantial air,I once melted the heart of Cuchulain and his warriorsAnd Tom Moore grew quite sentimental about me in Tara’s halls,Where my ripply waves of watery soundsTurned to thin strips of paper on the breeze.Now I can faint but to transparent moonsAnd the intensified weariness of stars.I can whimper the same faded melodiesWith their aroma of blurred cinnamon.But the warriors have tired of listening,For the Trocaderos call them with their Coon jazz-bands.

Drips of dear ineffectual water,

April showers of pallid arsenic evaporating to unsubstantial air,

I once melted the heart of Cuchulain and his warriors

And Tom Moore grew quite sentimental about me in Tara’s halls,

Where my ripply waves of watery sounds

Turned to thin strips of paper on the breeze.

Now I can faint but to transparent moons

And the intensified weariness of stars.

I can whimper the same faded melodies

With their aroma of blurred cinnamon.

But the warriors have tired of listening,

For the Trocaderos call them with their Coon jazz-bands.

Double-BassI strut with wicked tiger-eyesBeware! Beware!Bubbles of rubied flame ariseWhen villain gloats or hero dies’Tis I am there.When the last-breathed cry is uttered,When the ghastly raven’s fluttered.And the scoundrel’s curse is mutteredBeware! beware!’Tis I am there.I am a draught from an envenomed winepressLow-humming ere the thud and thunderstorm—And then at nightfall I decline, subsiding.My flames will flicker out into the starlightAnd I shall scoop into the dome of darknessA filmy vault of crystallising silver.

Double-Bass

I strut with wicked tiger-eyesBeware! Beware!Bubbles of rubied flame ariseWhen villain gloats or hero dies’Tis I am there.When the last-breathed cry is uttered,When the ghastly raven’s fluttered.And the scoundrel’s curse is mutteredBeware! beware!’Tis I am there.I am a draught from an envenomed winepressLow-humming ere the thud and thunderstorm—And then at nightfall I decline, subsiding.My flames will flicker out into the starlightAnd I shall scoop into the dome of darknessA filmy vault of crystallising silver.

I strut with wicked tiger-eyes

Beware! Beware!

Bubbles of rubied flame arise

When villain gloats or hero dies

’Tis I am there.

When the last-breathed cry is uttered,

When the ghastly raven’s fluttered.

And the scoundrel’s curse is muttered

Beware! beware!

’Tis I am there.

I am a draught from an envenomed winepress

Low-humming ere the thud and thunderstorm—

And then at nightfall I decline, subsiding.

My flames will flicker out into the starlight

And I shall scoop into the dome of darkness

A filmy vault of crystallising silver.

XylophoneLittle bells on golden strings,Little, glittering, glassy things,Frail humming-birds with freckled wings....MarionettesAnd PirouettesAnd steel-arpeggio flutterings.With my music-box precisionI can conjure up a visionOf nurseries and unicornsAnd silver cows with crumpled horns,Of daisies and forget-me-nots,Of cherry-jam and coffee-pots,Perpetual kaleidoscopesOf jumping-jacks and skipping ropes.I chatter for eternity,So help yourself to China tea!

Xylophone

Little bells on golden strings,Little, glittering, glassy things,Frail humming-birds with freckled wings....MarionettesAnd PirouettesAnd steel-arpeggio flutterings.With my music-box precisionI can conjure up a visionOf nurseries and unicornsAnd silver cows with crumpled horns,Of daisies and forget-me-nots,Of cherry-jam and coffee-pots,Perpetual kaleidoscopesOf jumping-jacks and skipping ropes.I chatter for eternity,So help yourself to China tea!

Little bells on golden strings,

Little, glittering, glassy things,

Frail humming-birds with freckled wings....

Marionettes

And Pirouettes

And steel-arpeggio flutterings.

With my music-box precision

I can conjure up a vision

Of nurseries and unicorns

And silver cows with crumpled horns,

Of daisies and forget-me-nots,

Of cherry-jam and coffee-pots,

Perpetual kaleidoscopes

Of jumping-jacks and skipping ropes.

I chatter for eternity,

So help yourself to China tea!

BanjoKiddy, Oh ma honeyAre you giddy for a songOr a run for your money?For I’ll buzz you one alongFor I’m tin and string and wireAnd wire and string and tin,I can tang a tune for hire;I can thump until I’m thin.Gee! I’ll strut a juicy fox-trot(Lilly-oh ma loo, ma loo)Or a Coon’s banana cakewalk(Come and kiss me, ducky, do!).

Banjo

Kiddy, Oh ma honeyAre you giddy for a songOr a run for your money?For I’ll buzz you one alongFor I’m tin and string and wireAnd wire and string and tin,I can tang a tune for hire;I can thump until I’m thin.Gee! I’ll strut a juicy fox-trot(Lilly-oh ma loo, ma loo)Or a Coon’s banana cakewalk(Come and kiss me, ducky, do!).

Kiddy, Oh ma honey

Are you giddy for a song

Or a run for your money?

For I’ll buzz you one along

For I’m tin and string and wire

And wire and string and tin,

I can tang a tune for hire;

I can thump until I’m thin.

Gee! I’ll strut a juicy fox-trot

(Lilly-oh ma loo, ma loo)

Or a Coon’s banana cakewalk

(Come and kiss me, ducky, do!).

(A vision of red-mouths, outthrust bellies in a leafycréme-de-menthe tropic.)

TromboneI am the brawny man without a brainWho yawns a heartfelt music mournfully.The military orchestra reveresMy manliness. Each Sunday afternoonI lead in the Gaillard-Apothéose.For I exude no poignant, fevered soundsAnd yet I have my share of sentiment.The soldier boy who perished by his willFor King and Country’s call, I represent.I stand for honour, bravery’s my spouseAnd that I swear’s no enviable rôle—My sounds lack pepper often when they seemTo fall in relaxation on a couch,But hold my player culpable for that;Confiteor! I know I have defects;But do not grudge me my solidity!

Trombone

I am the brawny man without a brainWho yawns a heartfelt music mournfully.The military orchestra reveresMy manliness. Each Sunday afternoonI lead in the Gaillard-Apothéose.For I exude no poignant, fevered soundsAnd yet I have my share of sentiment.The soldier boy who perished by his willFor King and Country’s call, I represent.I stand for honour, bravery’s my spouseAnd that I swear’s no enviable rôle—My sounds lack pepper often when they seemTo fall in relaxation on a couch,But hold my player culpable for that;Confiteor! I know I have defects;But do not grudge me my solidity!

I am the brawny man without a brain

Who yawns a heartfelt music mournfully.

The military orchestra reveres

My manliness. Each Sunday afternoon

I lead in the Gaillard-Apothéose.

For I exude no poignant, fevered sounds

And yet I have my share of sentiment.

The soldier boy who perished by his will

For King and Country’s call, I represent.

I stand for honour, bravery’s my spouse

And that I swear’s no enviable rôle—

My sounds lack pepper often when they seem

To fall in relaxation on a couch,

But hold my player culpable for that;

Confiteor! I know I have defects;

But do not grudge me my solidity!

HautboisThe descendant of that reedThe shepherds played in Attica,Drowsing to the indolence of their brown bodies,I peck the eyes of silenceWith the vulture-beak of my primeval harshness.Yet the high keys of an organAre rivals lean to mine,Sonorous in primitive ingenuitiesWhich blister the most Wagnerian cynics[1]With their clear-dropping, honey-comb dripping notes.For you expect in flurry cohortsThe bees to swarm out “zoo-oom, zoo-oom”Scything the phosphorescence on this airOf agate-carved medallions,Where all are statuettes from Tanagra.

Hautbois

The descendant of that reedThe shepherds played in Attica,Drowsing to the indolence of their brown bodies,I peck the eyes of silenceWith the vulture-beak of my primeval harshness.Yet the high keys of an organAre rivals lean to mine,Sonorous in primitive ingenuitiesWhich blister the most Wagnerian cynics[1]With their clear-dropping, honey-comb dripping notes.For you expect in flurry cohortsThe bees to swarm out “zoo-oom, zoo-oom”Scything the phosphorescence on this airOf agate-carved medallions,Where all are statuettes from Tanagra.

The descendant of that reed

The shepherds played in Attica,

Drowsing to the indolence of their brown bodies,

I peck the eyes of silence

With the vulture-beak of my primeval harshness.

Yet the high keys of an organ

Are rivals lean to mine,

Sonorous in primitive ingenuities

Which blister the most Wagnerian cynics[1]

With their clear-dropping, honey-comb dripping notes.

For you expect in flurry cohorts

The bees to swarm out “zoo-oom, zoo-oom”

Scything the phosphorescence on this air

Of agate-carved medallions,

Where all are statuettes from Tanagra.

[1]Bother those lick-spittles!

TrumpetThe turbid air is buttered over nowWith streaks of marbled stillness, as the prowOf some deserted galleon; then I,A pennon floating down the jagged sky,Dissolve the butter with a single blastUntil the quiet falls, a broken mastLike giant hail that thrashes on the leadsI paralyse and rip the air to shreds,I flash my sparks of forest-powdering noise;The formidable fanfares that I poise,Ominous heralds of catastrophe,As grapes of cloudy vintage on a seaPurple and swollen, lecherous for thirst,That wait until the thunderclaps, then burst.When calm is ravished and I make retreatStill throbs the air, still fevered temples beat....

Trumpet

The turbid air is buttered over nowWith streaks of marbled stillness, as the prowOf some deserted galleon; then I,A pennon floating down the jagged sky,Dissolve the butter with a single blastUntil the quiet falls, a broken mastLike giant hail that thrashes on the leadsI paralyse and rip the air to shreds,I flash my sparks of forest-powdering noise;The formidable fanfares that I poise,Ominous heralds of catastrophe,As grapes of cloudy vintage on a seaPurple and swollen, lecherous for thirst,That wait until the thunderclaps, then burst.When calm is ravished and I make retreatStill throbs the air, still fevered temples beat....

The turbid air is buttered over now

With streaks of marbled stillness, as the prow

Of some deserted galleon; then I,

A pennon floating down the jagged sky,

Dissolve the butter with a single blast

Until the quiet falls, a broken mast

Like giant hail that thrashes on the leads

I paralyse and rip the air to shreds,

I flash my sparks of forest-powdering noise;

The formidable fanfares that I poise,

Ominous heralds of catastrophe,

As grapes of cloudy vintage on a sea

Purple and swollen, lecherous for thirst,

That wait until the thunderclaps, then burst.

When calm is ravished and I make retreat

Still throbs the air, still fevered temples beat....

Cor.I trumpet orange clear and strongAnd then I falter in my song,My breath falls stertorous when I climb,My notes are sudden-shivery in the ankles.Fierce red I turn, but like a blurry prismHalf-red, half-yellow, sinewy I gripWith potent gums onto the banisterOf music.My notes call often desperate retreatsFrom battle-fields corpse-rich, still dear, still strong,More passionate than grief, fevered than hatred,Still dear, still strong, I wail a-down the breeze—Which raises a poignant odour of putrefaction.

Cor.

I trumpet orange clear and strongAnd then I falter in my song,My breath falls stertorous when I climb,My notes are sudden-shivery in the ankles.Fierce red I turn, but like a blurry prismHalf-red, half-yellow, sinewy I gripWith potent gums onto the banisterOf music.My notes call often desperate retreatsFrom battle-fields corpse-rich, still dear, still strong,More passionate than grief, fevered than hatred,Still dear, still strong, I wail a-down the breeze—Which raises a poignant odour of putrefaction.

I trumpet orange clear and strong

And then I falter in my song,

My breath falls stertorous when I climb,

My notes are sudden-shivery in the ankles.

Fierce red I turn, but like a blurry prism

Half-red, half-yellow, sinewy I grip

With potent gums onto the banister

Of music.

My notes call often desperate retreats

From battle-fields corpse-rich, still dear, still strong,

More passionate than grief, fevered than hatred,

Still dear, still strong, I wail a-down the breeze—

Which raises a poignant odour of putrefaction.

FluteThough sharpI ne-ver harpUponMy clear-ness likeA fear-ful bird.My freshAnd pier-cing meshOf notesEntrapThe senseAnd lapThe mind.I re-presentThe lightOf moonIn nightOf June.A seaOf scentFrom wood-land vineI couldDefineWith clear-ness likeA fear-ful bird.

Flute

Though sharpI ne-ver harpUponMy clear-ness likeA fear-ful bird.My freshAnd pier-cing meshOf notesEntrapThe senseAnd lapThe mind.I re-presentThe lightOf moonIn nightOf June.A seaOf scentFrom wood-land vineI couldDefineWith clear-ness likeA fear-ful bird.

Though sharp

I ne-

ver harp

Upon

My clear-

ness like

A fear-

ful bird.

My fresh

And pier-

cing mesh

Of notes

Entrap

The sense

And lap

The mind.

I re-

present

The light

Of moon

In night

Of June.

A sea

Of scent

From wood-

land vine

I could

Define

With clear-

ness like

A fear-

ful bird.

CymbalsArrows glitter through the air,Wherewith, we, plumed of dappled rainbows,Ravage quiet.Shrilly shimmering, we whizz, hiss,Thrash our eruptions volcanic,Clattering into scythesWhich pierce the lead-of-air.Our arrogant syncopations becomeBright sunflowers of steel waxing gigantical,Then, more animated, clash; there....Have two suns collided?And tell me has the curtain been pulled down?

Cymbals

Arrows glitter through the air,Wherewith, we, plumed of dappled rainbows,Ravage quiet.Shrilly shimmering, we whizz, hiss,Thrash our eruptions volcanic,Clattering into scythesWhich pierce the lead-of-air.Our arrogant syncopations becomeBright sunflowers of steel waxing gigantical,Then, more animated, clash; there....Have two suns collided?And tell me has the curtain been pulled down?

Arrows glitter through the air,

Wherewith, we, plumed of dappled rainbows,

Ravage quiet.

Shrilly shimmering, we whizz, hiss,

Thrash our eruptions volcanic,

Clattering into scythes

Which pierce the lead-of-air.

Our arrogant syncopations become

Bright sunflowers of steel waxing gigantical,

Then, more animated, clash; there....

Have two suns collided?

And tell me has the curtain been pulled down?

DrumMen go to be murdered like innocent lambsAt the slaughter-house, gentle as beeves or as hams.Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.They are singing away, they are singing away,They are bidding farewell to the realms of the day ...Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.And look at all the faces at the windows peering out!The bonny lads are going to war, “Hurray! hurray!” they shout,“The bonny boys, Hurray! Hurray!They look so happy and so gay!”Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.Some are going to their funerals: I roll with bloodshot eyes.Some are going to a land of death and never to arise.Except to sing a “Glory, Hallelujah” to the KingAnd dance around his throne of gold and warble in a ring—Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.The fields of France will run in little rivers of their bloodAnd a few, all gashed and gory, will be sprawling in the mud.Some are going to a land of death, and never to arise,Some are going to their funerals; I roll with bloodshot eyes—Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.And their lithe and youthful bodies will be broken mannequinsThat the Doctors will be cutting, and the bandages and pinsWill take the place of cockroaches and rats with pinkish eyesAnd the lice that suck the blood of every soldier ere he dies.Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.And I persuade the sceptic that he’s fighting for a cause“To fight for Right with all his Might” with fang and tooth and claws,When I’m rolling he forgets the facts and thinks of youth and gloryAnd forgets that if he does return he’ll tell another story.Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum! (bis).

Drum

Men go to be murdered like innocent lambsAt the slaughter-house, gentle as beeves or as hams.Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.They are singing away, they are singing away,They are bidding farewell to the realms of the day ...Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.And look at all the faces at the windows peering out!The bonny lads are going to war, “Hurray! hurray!” they shout,“The bonny boys, Hurray! Hurray!They look so happy and so gay!”Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

Men go to be murdered like innocent lambs

At the slaughter-house, gentle as beeves or as hams.

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

They are singing away, they are singing away,

They are bidding farewell to the realms of the day ...

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

And look at all the faces at the windows peering out!

The bonny lads are going to war, “Hurray! hurray!” they shout,

“The bonny boys, Hurray! Hurray!

They look so happy and so gay!”

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

Some are going to their funerals: I roll with bloodshot eyes.Some are going to a land of death and never to arise.Except to sing a “Glory, Hallelujah” to the KingAnd dance around his throne of gold and warble in a ring—Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

Some are going to their funerals: I roll with bloodshot eyes.

Some are going to a land of death and never to arise.

Except to sing a “Glory, Hallelujah” to the King

And dance around his throne of gold and warble in a ring—

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

The fields of France will run in little rivers of their bloodAnd a few, all gashed and gory, will be sprawling in the mud.Some are going to a land of death, and never to arise,Some are going to their funerals; I roll with bloodshot eyes—Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

The fields of France will run in little rivers of their blood

And a few, all gashed and gory, will be sprawling in the mud.

Some are going to a land of death, and never to arise,

Some are going to their funerals; I roll with bloodshot eyes—

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

And their lithe and youthful bodies will be broken mannequinsThat the Doctors will be cutting, and the bandages and pinsWill take the place of cockroaches and rats with pinkish eyesAnd the lice that suck the blood of every soldier ere he dies.Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

And their lithe and youthful bodies will be broken mannequins

That the Doctors will be cutting, and the bandages and pins

Will take the place of cockroaches and rats with pinkish eyes

And the lice that suck the blood of every soldier ere he dies.

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.

And I persuade the sceptic that he’s fighting for a cause“To fight for Right with all his Might” with fang and tooth and claws,When I’m rolling he forgets the facts and thinks of youth and gloryAnd forgets that if he does return he’ll tell another story.Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum! (bis).

And I persuade the sceptic that he’s fighting for a cause

“To fight for Right with all his Might” with fang and tooth and claws,

When I’m rolling he forgets the facts and thinks of youth and glory

And forgets that if he does return he’ll tell another story.

Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum! (bis).

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