Lyrics

The enemy without--and he within! You meet him on the stairs of your high tower All simpers. At his nose he hath a flower, Upon his tongue cheap honey; and his chin Waggeth for ever. If we lose or win-- Please don't talk war! The witty luncheon hour, The joyous week-end! Good souls, who could sour So blithe a spirit, or prick so sleek a skin? Cheerfullest wight! It is his constant whim To beam on Fate. All that he asks is love, A salad, a glass of wine, music that charms, A book, a friend, and "the blue sky above"-- And underneath, the everlasting arms Of them that toil and groan and bleed for him.