O there are streets of gold in Bethnal Green,
With troughs of pearl where lovely horses drink,
And tripping on the greenswards, silver-clean,
The girls are marvellouser than you can think.
Gawd blimey! Bethnal Green!
(All this from Tommy Jones,
Delirious in the trench with shattered bones).
O there is harvest now in Camden Town,
And songs and laughing and old flasks of wine!
O the grand moon of bronze! the wakeful brown
Owl in the barn! ghost-poppies and dream-kine!
Lor lumme! Camden Town!
(This with the gasp of death
From 'Erbert, chlorine-gassed and green for breath).
O what green seas sweep winds through Camberwell,
Through all her islands where the palm-trees heave!
O winding down the channels steals a bell
Calling poor weary lads to bathe at eve!
God blawst it! Camberwell!
(This from old Bob, whose side
Is pierced with wounds like Jesus crucified).
"IN THE GALLERY WHERE THE FAT MEN GO"
("GREAT PICTURES OF THE SOMME OFFENSIVE,
DAY BY DAY. THE ACTUAL FIGHTING")
_See Omnibus and Underground Notices,
April_ 1918
They are showing how we lie
With our bodies run dry:
The attitudes we take
When impaled upon a stake.
These and other things they show
In the gallery where the fat men go.
In the gallery where the fat men go
They're exhibiting our guts
Horse-betrampled in the ruts;
And Private Tommy Spout,
With his eye gouged out;
And Jimmy spitting blood;
And Sergeant lying so
That he's drowning in the mud,
In the gallery where the fat men go.
They adjust their pince-nez
In the gentle urban way,
And they plant their feet tight
For to get a clearer sight.
They stand playing with their thumbs,
With their shaven cheeks aglow.
For the Terror never comes,
And the worms and the woe.
For they never hear the drums
Drumming Death dead-slow,
In the gallery where the fat men go.
If the gallery where the fat men go
Were in flames around their feet,
Or were sucking through the mud:
If they heard the guns beat
Like a pulse through the blood:
If the lice were in their hair,
And the scabs were on their tongue,
And the rats were smiling there,
Padding softly through the dung,
Would they fix the pince-nez
In the gentle urban way,
Would the pictures still be hung
In the gallery where the fat men go?