Blighters

 The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin 
And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks 
Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; 
‘We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!’ 

I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls,
Lurching to rag-time tunes, or ‘Home, sweet Home’, 
And there’d be no more jokes in Music-halls 
To mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.

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