THE GENIUS OF WAR

I am the Genius of War.

My standard's the Skull and the Bones.

I raise my voice—I stamp my foot,

And legions rise out of the ground.

Armies advance and retreat,

Poisoned, diseased and maimed:

All that is left is a grewsome aspect

To the moonlight, the ghouls and Me.

All this to a laudable end:—

The general has his star;

Shylock his four per cent;

The contractor's wife a costly gem

To enhance her vulgar charms;

The mother a harvest of tears;

The wife a broken heart;

The unborn babe a prenatal curse;

While I have my surfeit of blood.