Major Fitzpatrick

Baker Brownell

His back had the sabre's curve,
Clean sitting on his mount.
His words were winged words, steel-tipped,
Loosed on drab men drilling.
His was the drama of the harpoon
Driving barbed oaths, driving deep
Into drab men drilling
On the battalion parade.
The dynamic of the oath was his,
Its knife energy, its thrust.
At the third battalion Major Fitz
Hurled personality-like bitter shrapnel.