I KNOW a man (accounted wise) Who thinks himself an ancient make Of musket. Breakfast food supplies His powder, and a Hamburg steak The bullet, while a flannel-cake Acts as the wadding. Then away He shoots for all that fighting day; Shoots to his car, shoots to his work, Shoots here, shoots there, Shoots everywhere A dollar may be thought to lurk; Shoots out to luncheon, shoots to drink, Shoots home at night, too tired to think, Shoots through the news, and, spent at last, Drops, thankful that the day is past. For all this stress from dawn to sleep He gets his victuals, clothes, and keep. Ho! Ho! A foolish man is he. (And very much like you and me.) | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SORROWING LOVE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD TWO SONNETS: 2 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE JOURNEY ONWARDS by THOMAS MOORE PUCK AND THE FAIRY, FR. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE FLAT-HUNTER'S WAY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TO MY FRIEND MR. THOMAS FLATMAN, ON THE PUBLISHING OF THESE HIS POEMS by FRANCIS BARNARD (D. 1698) TO HIS WORSHIPFULL WEL-WILLER, MAISTER EDWARD LEIGH by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK by JAMES W. BLAKE HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 26 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |