In the oh-Christ odour of battle,

The stunned silence of snipered streets,

They will still be doing their thing -

Plying their dark entertainment

Of tango from another world:

Two oiled figures, out of age,

Swaying to the squeezebox rhythm,

Legs hypnotically intertwined,

With an unspoken whiff of sex,

Which ramps up the indecency.

Only a matter of time now.

Below, a stratum of cold bones

Heaves at the prospect of their fall:

More mislaid lives, unlogged, absorbed.