It was a summer evening; <br />Old Kaspar was at home, <br />Sitting before his cottage door-- <br />Like in the Southey pome-- <br />And near him, with a magazine, <br />Idled his grandchild, Geraldine. <br /> <br />"Wy don't you ask me," Kaspar said <br />To the child upon the floor, <br />"Why don't you ask me what I did <br />When I was in the war? <br />They told me that each little kid <br />Would surely ask me what I did. <br /> <br />"I've had my story ready <br />For thirty years or more." <br />"Don't bother, Grandpa," said the child; <br />"I find such things a bore. <br />Pray leave me to my magazine," <br />Asserted little Geraldine. <br /> <br />Then entered little Peterkin, <br />To whom the gaffer said: <br />"You'd like to hear about the war? <br />How I was left for dead?" <br />"No. And, besides," declared the youth, <br />"How do I know you speak the truth?" <br /> <br />Arose the Wan, embittered man, <br />The hero of this pome, <br />And walked, with not unsprightly step, <br />Down to the Soldiers' Home, <br />Where he, with seven other men, <br />Sat swapping lies till half-past ten.<br /><br />Franklin P. Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/it-was-a-famous-victory/
