Here lies a most elegant captain of colonials.
Astride verandahs like a god in white,
With palm-on-holster pose
He preached a wampum-commerce to the jungle.
Ordered the guns to front the tankered sea,
Disdained the bog behind: “We don’t need guns, old boy,
To pink the marsh-rats, eh?”
In linen leisure he invented pingpong
And fussed to birth concoction in tall glasses;
Discovered tennis wile and chukker ruses
But not the way to keep a city safe.
Captain, a wreath:
The silver gut of boys by bayonet culled,
The blood-bright hair of maidens in the dust.
Leave a Reply