For when my brain is on their track,
In slangy speech I call them back.
With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.
_"Another little drink won't do us any harm."
I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;
And see their faces crowding round
To the sound of the syncopated beat.
They've got such jolly things to tell,
Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat..._
* * * * *
And so the song breaks off; and I'm alone.
They're dead... For God's sake stop that gramophone.