A Victory Dance by Alfred Noyes

A Victory Dance
by Alfred Noyes

The cymbals crash,
And the dancers walk
With long silk stockings
And arms of chalk,
Butterfly skirts,
And white breasts bare,
And shadows of dead men
Watching ’em there.

Shadows of dead men
Stand by the wall,
Watching the fun
Of the Victory Ball.
They do not reproach,
Because they know,
If they’re forgotten,
It’s better so.

Under the dancing
Feet are the graves.
Dazzle and motley,
In long bright waves,
Brushed by the palm-fronds,
Grapple and whirl
Ox-eyed matron
And slim white girl.

Fat wet bodies
Go waddling by,
Girdled with satin,
Though God knows why;
Gripped by satyrs
In white and black,
With a fat wet hand
On the fat wet back.

See, there is one child
Fresh from school,
Learning the ropes
As the old hands rule.
God, how that dead boy
Gapes and grins
As the tom-toms bang
And the shimmy begins!

“What did you think
We should find,” said a shade,
“When the last shot echoed
And peace was made?”
“Christ,” laughed the fleshless
Jaws of his friend;
“I thought they’d be praying
For worlds to mend;

“Making earth better,
Or something silly,
Like whitewashing hell
Or Picca-dam-dilly.
They’ve a sense of humor,
These women of ours,
These exquisite lilies,
These fresh young flowers!”

“Pish,” said a statesman
Standing near,
“I’m glad they can busy
Their thoughts elsewhere!
We mustn’t reproach ’em.
They’re young, you see.”
“Ah,” said the dead men,
“So were we!”

Victory! Victory!
On with the dance!
Back to the jungle
The new beasts prance!
God, how the dead men
Grin by the wall,
Watching the fun
Of the Victory Ball.