The cymbals crash,
     And the dancers walk
With long silk stockings
     And arms of chalk,
Butterfly skirts,
     And white breasts bare,
And shadows of dead men
     Watching ’em there.

Shadows of dead men
     Stand by the wall,
Watching the fun
     Of the Victory Ball.
They do not reproach,
     Because they know,
If they’re forgotten,
     It’s better so.

Under the dancing
     Feet are the graves.
Dazzle and motley,
     In long bright waves,
Brushed by the palm-fronds,
     Grapple and whirl
Ox-eyed matron
     And slim white girl.

Fat wet bodies
     Go waddling by,
Girdled with satin,
     Though God knows why;
Gripped by satyrs
     In white and black,
With a fat wet hand
     On the fat wet back.

See, there is one child
     Fresh from school,
Learning the ropes
     As the old hands rule.
God, how that dead boy¹
     Gapes and grins
As the tom-toms bang
     And the shimmy begins!

“What did you think
     We should find,” said a shade,
“When the last shot echoed
     And peace was made?”
“Christ,” laughed the fleshless
     Jaws of his friend;
“I thought they’d be praying
     For worlds to mend;

“Making earth better,
     Or something silly,
Like whitewashing hell
     Or Picca-dam-dilly.²
They’ve a sense of humor,
     These women of ours,
These exquisite lilies,
     These fresh young flowers!”

“Pish,” said a statesman
     Standing near,
“I’m glad they can busy
     Their thoughts elsewhere!
We mustn’t reproach ’em.
     They’re young, you see.”
“Ah,” said the dead men,
     “So were we!”

Victory! Victory!
     On with the dance!
Back to the jungle
     The new beasts prance!
God, how the dead men
     Grin by the wall,
Watching the fun
     Of the Victory Ball.