Poem by Robert William Service

The Macaronis

Italian people peaceful are,--
Let it be to their credit.
They mostly fail to win a war,
--Oh they themselves have said it.
"Allergic we to lethal guns
And military might:
We love our homes and little ones,
And loath to fight."

But Teutons are a warrior race
Who seek the sword to rattle;
And in the sun they claim a place,
Even at price of battle.
The prestige of a uniform
Is sacred in their sight;
They deem that they are soldiers born
And might is right.

And so I love Italians though
Their fighting powers are petty;
My heart with sympathy doth go
To eaters of spaghetti.
And if the choice were left to me,
I know beyond a doubt
A hundred times I'd rather be
A Dago than a Kraut.

1. Resolutions
2. Quatrains
3. The Mother (Your children grow from you apart)
4. No More Music
5. Old Sweethearts

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