Major Fitzpatrick

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.