Here, though the bombs are real and dangerous,
And Italy and King’s are far away,
And we’re afraid that you will speak to us,
You promise still the inner life shall pay.
As we run down the slope of
Hate with gladness
You trip us up like an unnoticed stone,
And just as we are closeted with
Madness You interrupt us like the telephone.
For we are Lucy, Turton, Philip, we
Wish international evil, are excited
To join the jolly ranks of the benighted
Where Reason is denied and Love ignored:
But, as we swear our lie.
Miss Avery Comes out into the garden with the sword.