Death will dance at the battle tonight
For she's powdered her face a phosphorous white.
And sits on the hillside to primp and preen
And perfume herself with sweet gangrene.
She's packed her face with foxhole mud
And roughed her lips with clotted blood
To rub on the boys that hold her too tight
As they waltz along in the incendiary light.
Pompom will play, steel confetti will fall
And death to night will dance at the ball.
In the hills of Samat, on the beach at Bataan
She'll flirt with them all; And have every man.