They asked me where I'd been
And what I'd seen and done,
So in an early morning rage
I loaded hell up on my shoulders and
step by step launched more vapid
words to go up with the cordite smoke of yore.
See the soldier who must be dead
to be alive.
See the waif who must be ancient
to be young.
Travel with me through the dawn;
travel with me through the dusk:
who, but who are these milepost spectres?
What shrieks, these, that toll
the passing of souls to a far oblivion?
Words, words, words!
So "they" come and go
speaking not even of Michelangelo.
Ever try to fill a dead man's ears with words?
End of mission.