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Poem	I have abhorred the wars and despised the liars, laughed at the frightened And forecast victory; never one moment's doubt. But now not far, over the backs of some crawling years, the next Great war's column of dust and fire writhes Up the sides of the sky: it becomes clear that we too may suffer What others have, the brutal horror of defeat— Or if not in the next, then in the next—therefore watch Germany And read the future. We wish, of course, that our women Would die like biting rats in the cellars, our men like wolves on the mountain: It will not be so. Our men will curse, cringe, obey; Our women uncover themselves to the grinning victors for bits of chocolate.
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