WE CALLED 'em wop and dago, and often guinea, too— We used to think of them as picking rags, And graduating, later on in life, To selling speckled fruit in paper bags. We kidded them and guyed them, and we were just a bit afraid Of the Black Hand and the Mafia—we often thought, you bet, When we would get a Guinea sore and his big black eyes would flash, About vendettas, rough, tough stuff, and "da gooda sharp stilett." We joshed their macaroni and their red Chianti ink, And we told them that spaghetti was extremely on the blink, And, if it came to fighting, why, we simply had to laugh— Take away his big stiletto, and what wop would stand the gaff? It isn't wop or dago, and it isn't guinea here— Now that we fight beside them every day— We've changed our views, now that we know those birds, And say—we like 'em—like 'em every way! We kid them and we josh them—just the fun that goes in camp— And they josh "da gooda Yank" to beat the band— And we charge and fight together—how these little ducks can scrap! Say—they throw the knockout punch with either hand! We have come to like spaghetti when a hard day's fighting's done, And I had a quart of dago red by a captured Austrian gun— I've a pal that's named Guiseppe, and Big Pietro is my chum, And we'll know Italians better in the long years yet to come! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE SONNET: 67 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 109 by PHILIP SIDNEY |