Dross on a bed, I stub a Rothman’s out;
I seem to hear a thousand demons shout
Go! Go! Go! Go! as Jack my facto mate
Clumps his great bulk about.
His pint of port stands empty on the sink;
Sweaty and pale he horses, cannot think.
I take his tie off for him, push him back;
His eyelids will not blink.
Remember, Jack? You spoke of Alamein,
The sand and blood, the stone eyes of the slain.
Your hands are lumps of clay, your eyes are white
Snowdrifts of the insane.
I seem to lie half naked, half in dread
While soldiers in their graves, whose bodies bled
See my soul bleed as you with monstrous hands
Disturb the angry dead.
Oh master, in those eyes show fire and rack.
I’d burn, I’d swing for love, but not for that.
Our little boy said ‘Daddy’s not all there!’
Hell damn you! No, no, Jack!