This mouth of madness grace,
And flow through wine-red seas,
Into bottomless scalps,
Where choirs of drunk baboons,
Manufacture ammunition for war.

My smile, my bullets and rifle,
This dance floor, this mile-long trench,
And Gleaming teeth glitter and feet shuffle,
Like oil-tankers searching their strait.
Run—run! These restless hours fool,
The midnight end, every minute by the hour,
Give way regret to the kamikaze fool.