War I Abhor, And Yet How Sweet The Sound Along The Marching Street Of Drum And Fife, And I Forget Wet Eyes Of Widows, And Forget Broken Old Mothers, And The Whole Dark Butchery Without A Soul. Without A Soul - Save This Bright Drink Of Heady Music, Sweet As Hell; And Even My Peace-Abiding Feet Go Marching With The Marching Street, For Yonder, Yonder Goes The Fife, And What Care I For Human Life! The Tears Fill My Astonished Eyes And My Full Heart Is Like To Break, And Yet 'Tis All Embannered Lies, A Dream Those Little Drummers Make. O It Is Wickedness To Clothe Yon Hideous Grinning Thing That Stalks Hidden In Music, Like A Queen That In A Garden Of Glory Walks, Till Good Men Love The Thing They Loathe. Art, Thou Hast Many Infamies, But Not An Infamy Like This; O Snap The Fife And Still The Drum, And Show The Monster As She Is.