Really make severe demands
On a mind that’s none too rapid,
Leaden brains tend to the vapid.
But how beautifully dressed
Is this army! How impressed
Tommy is when at his heel
All his baggage wagons wheel
About the patterned carpet, and
Moving up his heavy 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
And shrivel like red embers. The fire sizzles.
Tommy is galloping his cavalry, two by two, over the floor. They
The open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under the
The mounted band is very grand, playing allegro and leading the
At the double quick. The tassel of the hearth-rug has
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
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
At his impotence, and flaunts the glory of the martial and still
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
The fire strokes them with its dartles, and purrs
And the old man nods.
Tommy does not hear the song. He only sees the beautiful,
Gaily-coloured lead soldiers. They belong to him, and
He is very proud
And happy. He shouts his orders aloud, and gallops his
Cavalry past the door
To the wash-stand. He creeps over the floor on his hands
To one battalion and another, but he sees only the bright colours
Of his soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures.
He is a lucky boy to have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy.
Tommy catches his toe in the leg of the wash-stand, and jars the
He snatches at it with his hands, but it is too late. The
And as it goes, he sees the white water flow over its lip. It
Between his fingers and crashes to the floor. But it
Is not water which oozes
To the door. The stain is glutinous and dark, a spark
From the firelight
Heads it to red. In and out, between the fine, new soldiers,
Licking over the carpet, squirms the stream of blood, lapping at
The little green platforms, and flapping itself against the painted
The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly, forward and back.
The rose is broken, and where it fell is black blood. The
Old mandarin leers
Under his purple umbrella, and nods forward and back, staring
Into the air
With blue-green eyes. Every time his head comes forward
A rosebud pushes
Between his lips, rushes into full bloom, and drips to the ground
With a splashing sound. The pool of black blood grows
With each dropped rose, and spreads out to join the stream from
The wash-stand. The beautiful army of lead soldiers steps
But the little green platforms are covered in the rising stream
The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan-bursts of stars up
As though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars.