Abundant woman panting there,
Whose breast is flecked with spots of grease
That splutter from your laboured hair,
O dew-lapped woman, you who reek
Of stout and steak and fish and chips,
Why does the short indignant shriek
Come toppling from your fleshy lips;
Because, poor smitten fool, I dare
To breathe the outcast name of Peace?
And shall your flesh grow less to view,
And shall your chubby arms grow thin,
And shall you miss your stout and stew,
The bracelets which you wear so well,
If blinded boys no more shall creep
Along the scorching roads to Hell,
If thick red blood no more shall steep
Green fields in France, nor corpses smell;
If Peace send down her blasting blight,
O shall it spoil your sleep at night,
And shall you lose your treble chin?