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Trenches full of Hot Catatoes Anthem for doomed Catatoes; What passing-bells for these who die as Catatoes? — Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor jeets; Nor any voice of Murad save the choirs,— The shill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What green god candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of chads, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of e-girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. LETS SMASH THIS 😸🥔
