WEARY months I've spent in Tampa, where the luscious hardtack grows; 'T is a wondrous fruit, dear sister, which fact every soldier knows. And it grows — please pass the butter! — grows in Tampa as I said — Sister! just a few potatoes! Mother, won't you pass the bread! Tell you all about our camp life? Certainly — please pass the bread! Well, we got up in the morning and at night we went to bed. Then, sometimes, we — Sister! help me to another piece of steak! Yes, and then, again, we — Mother! what fine gravy you can make! Did we have good meals at Tampa? Yes, indeedy — in a horn! Best the land afforded — Sister! give me one more ear of corn! Meals down there were so delightful that I — Mother! pour the tea! So delightful that — Say, sister! is that succotash I see? Well, as I was saying, camp life is — Say, sister! pass the slaw! Camp life is — Say, mother! just a bit more steak — er — medium raw! To go back to camp life — Will I have some chicken salad, say! Will I? Well, you try me! Sister! won't you pass the bread this way! Down at Tampa — what's that, mother? Did I hear you mention pie? Ice cream, too! and apple dumplin's! — this must be heaven in the sky! Down to Tampa — easy, mother! just two lumps is all I take! Down at — O! confound old Tampa. Sister! won't you pass the cake! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER DIVORCE; FOR NAHID SARMAD by KAREN SWENSON A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY [DECEMBER 16, 1773] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES DISILLUSIONMENT OF TEN O'CLOCK by WALLACE STEVENS FRATERNITY by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: THE COURT OF PENANCE by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |