A little boy, not four feet high
Lay down beneath a tree
He gave a small, contented sigh
And gazed out o'er the sea
He thought of great four-masted ships
Their sides with cannons teeming
He heard the clink of crossing swords
Their wielders ever screaming
It seemed he saw the fiery breath
As cannons spit their load
Across the waves, delivering death
On all their hated foes
The roar of battle; sheets of flame
The twisted, silent dead
These sick'ning things drove all the thoughts
Of glory from his head
He rose and said, "How glad am I
To be here on this shore,
Instead of with those doomed to die
In bloody, ocean war."
©itrius
I