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Also too American, and also Whitman objectively sucks as a poet, even by American standards. So here's a much better terrible poem that at least has a boy in it: The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. [And so on, and so on.] No, you're quite right, we've had quite enough dead children (heroic and otherwise) burnt on one deck or another. You probably know all the much better versions: The boy stood on the burning deck, His heart was all aquiver. He gave a cough, his leg fell off, And floated down the river. The boy stood on the burning deck, The flames 'round him did roar; He found a bar of Ivory Soap And washed himself ashore. The boy stood on the burning deck, Picking his nose with glee. He rolled it into little balls, And flicked them at the sea. The boy stood on the burning deck, His feet against the mast. The boy refused to move an inch, Til Oscar Wilde had passed. The boy stood on the burning deck Playing a game of cricket, The ball flew down his trouser leg And hit his middle wicket. |