Except once a week he would change the scene For jaunts to Albert's brothel, where, eye glued To a spy-hole, he would watch men in the nude, His plat du jour, a poilu paid,
Fit and gleaming from the killing trade, (Fresh from the Front) to skewer a rat. This is what Marcel was playing at While others played the game of Death
(Its hard to talk of them in the same breath). But his business was to ferret out
Himself: not care who else was up the spout, He could claim the sheafs beside his bed Would live, when millions more were dead.