Why Do Sports

With slow wail and convulsive throb leading the officers funeral;
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be said
Your mission is fulfilldbut I, more warlike
O sight of pity, shame and dole!

Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering
Produce great Persons, the rest follows
Or Beat! Beat! Drums! or To the Leavend Soil they Trod
Rifles, some sit on logs
Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth

Recommended for you

This entry was posted in Headline poems and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>

Spam protection by WP Captcha-Free