Beyond the deepened shadows|
The women softly cry -
The slim-hipped fighting men
Go swinging down to die.
Through whose blue motif
Ran ragged, trailing threads
THE CONVENT OF THE GUNS
Our clean curved mouths are cold and dead|
Our polished skin is marred
Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt,
Dented, cut and scarred.
Our day is done!
But once -
Our open mouths blazed death's caress
Our tongues with steel were tipped!
Ah! bitter spinsters were we then
As we slashed and cut and ripped.
Our youth was filled with lovers,
All laughing, joyouts boys
Who stroked our slim, proud beauty,
Their latest, deadly toys.
Then clean and fresh and polished
We went forth with the Dead.
The living, lovely, happy lads
Whose last touch dyed us red.
Then supplanted like all harlots
By the newer, fresher one
We turned to rest and quiet
As our kind has always done.
With a printed tag about our throats
To inform our lovers' sons.
We're an Ordnance Exhibition
The Convent of Guns.