Strike Boldly

I would march, any time, down the street,
Making fresh history from the sound;
Every step makes a new battleground,
Underneath these size eight marching feet.
Sounding off, never twice, don't repeat
Anything ever. Veal, gently browned,
Crowds my plate with some spuds, gravy-crowned,
Brussels sprouts, corn, and slaw. . . . I won't eat.

I will march. You can try teaching me
Lessons: how people play cards — Old Maid,
Poker, Gin Rummy, Spit — then persuade
Friends that sin took me up bodily
So the fools must attack. One, two, three!
Starve me; strike boldly; then be afraid.