Or else—as when some soloist is done
And the hushed orchestra may now begin—
A sudden rage inflames the placid Hun
And scouts lie naked in a world of din.
The sullen bomb dissolves in singing shapes;
The whizz-bang jostles it—too fast to flee;
Machine-guns chatter like demented apes—
And, goodness, can it all be meant for me?
It can and is. And such are small affairs
Compared with Tompkins and his Lewis gun,