TO THE DEVIL ON HIS APPALLING DECADENCE

Satan, old friend and enemy of man;

Lord of the shadows and the sins whereby

We wretches glimpse the sun in Virtue’s sky

Guessing at last the wideness of His plan

Who fashioned kid and tiger, slayer and slain,

The paradox of evil, and the pain

Which threshes joy as with a winnowing fan:

Satan, of old your custom ’twas at least

To throw an apple to the soul you caught

Robbing your orchard. You, before you wrought

Damnation due and marked it with the beast,

Before its eyes were e’en disposed to dangle

Fruitage delicious. And you would not mangle

Nor maul the body of the dear deceased.

But you were called familiarly “Old Nick”—

The Devil, yet a gentleman you know!

Relentless—true, yet courteous to a foe.

Man’s soul your traffic was. You would not kick

His bloody entrails flying in the air.

Oh, “Krieg ist Krieg,” we know, and “C’est la guerre!”

But Satan, don’t you feel a trifle sick?

We have taken a trench

Near Combles, I see,

Along with the French.

We have taken a trench.

(Oh, the bodies, the stench!)

Won’t you have some more tea?

We have taken a trench

Near Combles, I see.