The Fox Hunter Flushes Out the Fritzies Single-handedly with
Bayonet and with the Same Fingers that Wrote His Poetry
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
He loved his poetry and music, such
Like things, and men, and sculptures, paintings, art,
But poetry and music—men—men much
More than even arty stuff. His heart
Contained this swash of beauties, British men,
Though, not the Boche. He stormed their trench alone,
While screaming view-halloas as if from den
Hunting Voice Calls – The Hunting Act
And safety threatened fox is beagle thrown
Across the path of death. The Germans fled,
Their blood in curdles in their hunted veins.
His fox-hunt of the Fritz inflicted dread
And filled those German trousers with brown stains.
Their guts filled up their uniformhosen.
This hunter left their bravery frozen.
~ Phillip Whidden