Except to sing a “Glory, Hallelujah” to the King
And dance around his throne of gold and warble in a ring—
Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.
The fields of France will run in little rivers of their blood
And a few, all gashed and gory, will be sprawling in the mud.
Some are going to a land of death, and never to arise,
Some are going to their funerals; I roll with bloodshot eyes—
Boum, boum—boum, boum, boum.
And their lithe and youthful bodies will be broken mannequins