by John Ciardi
The bells of Sunday rang us down
And flowers were blowing across the town
Through faucets of the sun turned on.
For Mary’s giggle and Martha’s glance
The bankrolls flashed from pants to pants,
The Captain did a Highland dance.
Oh, there were troops in every door,
And liquor spilled on every floor,
And when the sun became a bore
We turned it off and hung a star,
For we were beautiful and far
And all the papers spoke of war.
And all night long from window sills
The Angels beckoned and the bills
Of visors turned and made their kills.
We burned like kisses on the night,
And talented and drunk and bright
We shed ourselves in colored light.
Because the train was at the gate,
And clocks were closing down the date,
And all seas were running late.
(From The War Poets)