by E. E. Cummings

    i sing of Olaf glad and big

    whose warmest heart recoiled¹ at war：

    a conscientious² object-or

    his wellbelovéd colonel（trig

    westpointer most succinctly³ bred）

    took erring⁴ Olaf soon in hand；

    but——though an host of overjoyed

    noncoms（first knocking on the head

    him）do through icy waters roll

    that helplessness which others stroke

    with brushes recently employed

    anent this muddy toiletbowl，

    while kindred intellects evoke⁵

    allegiance per blunt instruments——

    Olaf（being to all intents

    a corpse⁶ and wanting any rag

    upon what God unto him gave）

    responds，without getting annoyed

    "I will not kiss your fucking flag"

    straightway the silver bird looked grave

    （departing hurriedly to shave）

    but——though all kinds of officers

    （a yearning⁷ nation's blueeyed pride）

    their passive prey⁸ did kick and curse

    until for wear their clarion⁹

    voices and boots were much the worse，

    and egged the firstclassprivates on

    his rectum wickedly to tease

    by means of skilfully¹⁰ applied¹¹

    bayonets roasted hot with heat——

    Olaf（upon what were once knees）

    does almost ceaselessly repeat

    "there is some shit I will not eat"

    our president，being of which

    assertions duly notified

    threw the yellowsonofabitch

    into a dungeon，where he died

    Christ（of His mercy infinite）

    i pray to see；and Olaf，too

    preponderatingly because

    unless statistics lie he was

    more brave than me：more blond than you.

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