eavy guns
He sees them glow with diamond suns
Flashing all along each barrel.
And the gold and blue apparel
Of his gunners is a joy.
Tommy is a lucky boy.
Boom! Boom! Ta-ra!

The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella. The rose in his hand
shoots its petals up in thin quills of crimson. Then they collapse and
shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.

Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They must
pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the
wash-stand. The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading
the infantry on at the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has
flung down the bass-drum, and he and his dapple-grey horse lie
overtripped, slipped out of line, with the little lead drumsticks
glistening to the fire's shine.

The fire burns and crackles, and tickles the tripped bass-drum with its
sparkles.

The marching army hitches its little green platforms valiantly, and
steadily approaches the door. The overturned bass-drummer, lying on the
hearth-rug, melting in the heat, softens and sheds tears. The song
jeers at his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still
upstanding, vaunting the deeds it will do. For are not Tommy's soldiers
all bright and new?

Tommy's leaden soldiers we,
Glittering with efficiency.
Not a button's out of place,
Tons and tons of golden lace
Wind about our officers.
Every manly bosom stirs
At the thought of killing--killing!
Tommy's dearest wish fulfilling.
We are gaudy, savage, strong,
And our loins so ripe we long
First to kill, then procreate,
Doubling so the laws of Fate.
On their women we have sworn
To graft our sons. And overborne
They'll rear us younger soldiers, so
Shall our race endure and grow,
Waxing greater in the wombs
Borrowed of them, while damp tombs
Rot their men. O Glorious War!
Goad us with your points, Great Star!

The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly, forward and
back--forward and back--and the red rose writhes and wriggles,
thrusting its flaming petals under and over one another like tortured
snakes.

The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs at them, and the old
man nods.

Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful, new,
gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and he is very proud
and happy. H