These are the damned circles Dante trod, br Terrible in hopelessness, br But even skulls have their humour, br An eyeless and sardonic mockery: br And we, br Sitting with streaming eyes in the acrid smoke, br That murks our foul, damp billet, br Chant bitterly, with raucous voices br As a choir of frogs br In hideous irony, our patriotic songs.