Classic Poem

'Tis a Dirge of Gloom
For an empty tomb
Where there's plenty of room
For the things that the War Cannot Kill!
( — — — the War!
As I said before:
— — ! — — — — !!**** !!! — — !
— — — — ***!!! — — I'm ill!)
But these Things that the War Cannot Kill:

The sights and the sounds as you go your rounds
In search of " trays " or in search of pounds,
In a city where beer and thirst abounds;
The sights that affright like the sudden sights
That bushmen see on recovery nights;
And the sudden sounds
That ring in your ears like the baying of hounds,
Or other more human and terrible sounds
Of the Morning After the Month Before.
But I'm out of my depth and out of bounds.
( — — the War!)

The nerve-racking rattle that takes you aback —
Like a rattlesnake in a narrow track
Or a snake in the morning in one of your socks —
Or the everlasting collection box
For a " Belgian " Band wot comes from " the Rocks " —
Or a Servian family on the rocks,
Or a British blare with a Prussian brogue,
Or some or other tin-whistle rogue,
Playing the tunes that are most in vogue.
(I'm sick of the tunes that are most in vogue.)

We can't have peace, and can't have war,
Or a prison gate, or a lock-up door,
Or hospitals for the rich and poor,
Or a church wherein to worship God
(I've seen the box in the temples, too,
Of the Gods of Asia), but this is true:
We can't do anything, old or new,
But Maud or Marion, Mabel or Madge,
From Mosman or Anywhere, puts on a badge
And goes on the everlasting cadge.
And now it is War, and the same old " lay " ,
As if we were Turkey, and couldn't pay,
To keep a war going for half a day,
Unless We helped Us in every way,
From raffling cushions at Watson's Bay
To rattling boxes on Circular Quay,
And breaking out on a teapot spree,
Instead of sewing on hooks and eyes,
As we used to do under peaceful skies,
And rattling dishes at wash-up time:
And nailing us down, from den to block,
To a cup at eleven and four o'clock.
(I'm short of rhythm and short of rhyme.)

And " Red Cross " branches in shop and hall
Have " Help! " writ largely on window and wall
In letters several inches tall;
With notes of hysteria which appal
The weak and timid, and raise the gall
Of real Australians (damn it all!).
And amuse our enemies, great and small.
Why can't we have pride and be dignified,
And sweep all this feminine rubbish aside?
They mostly belong, it can't be denied,
To the poodle-christening, Dame-worshipping side,
And they seize every ghost of a chance to have
Their Little Importance magnified.
" Every woman's a barmaid at heart! "
But not every one has the barmaid's pride,
Nor the barmaid's heart, nor the barmaid's tact,
Nor the barmaid's unusual gift to see
The General Fitness of Things and Fact,
And much less the barmaid's sincerity.

I thought political women were dead,
But find that they are alive instead;
And each, as hopelessly off her head,
Determined to go on just as before,
Only more,
" After the War " . (God bless the War!)
In the meantime, Mrs Labor Brown,
And Mrs Liberal Half-a-Crown,
And several Suffragettes of note,
Who don't know women have got the vote,
Are chasing each other round the town,
And pleading wildly for pillow-slips
And table-napkins and necktie clips,
And chocolate creams — the same old stunt —
And other rubbish to send to the Front,
To help 'em to bear the battle's brunt.
While Tommy Cornstalk, whenever he halts,
Is pleading mildly (with all his faults)
For " 'arf er packet er Epsom's Salts! "