Let No Traitor Carp

There is a fragrance on the mourning breeze,
A taint to glorify some plucky trench:
Such patriotic perfume is this stench,
Sweet symptom of our cosy old disease.
There is a noise upon the mourning air
Of bullets dodged and sacrifices ducked;
Of paper wreaths most reverently chucked
To beat the world at showing that we care.

So let no traitor carp nor criticise,
With conchy-pacifistic shirker fuss,
Our profitable fight to civilise
And raise the lesser breeds to be like us;
And let no vulgar shame ring out its knell
While virtue-sirens scream from silk lapel.

Hardman Standfast