Twas a sick young man with a face ungay <br />And an eye that was all alone; <br />And he shook his head in a hopeless way <br />As he sat on a roadside stone. <br /> <br /> <br />'O, ailing youth, what untoward fate <br />Has made the sun to set <br />On your mirth and eye?' 'I'm constrained to state <br />I'm an ex-West Point cadet. <br /> <br /> <br />''Twas at cannon-practice I got my hurt <br />And my present frame of mind; <br />For the gun went off with a double spurt- <br />Before it, and also behind!' <br /> <br /> <br />'How sad, how sad, that a fine young chap, <br />When studying how to kill, <br />Should meet with so terrible a mishap <br />Precluding eventual skill. <br /> <br /> <br />'Ah, woful to think that a weapon made <br />For mowing down the foe <br />Should commit so dreadful an escapade <br />As to turn about to mow!' <br /> <br /> <br />No more he heeded while I condoled: <br />He was wandering in his mind; <br />His lonely eye unconsidered rolled, <br />And his views he thus defined: <br /> <br /> <br />''Twas O for a breach of the peace-'twas O <br />For an international brawl! <br />But a piece of the breech-ah no, ah no, <br />I didn't want that at all.'<br /><br />Ambrose Bierce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/polyphemus-2/
