Classic Poem

You can see from this the sort of man I am.
The tenderfoot sea-trooper gets his ham
Sliced, and I am against it all the time.
I have no words with sudden-death to rhyme.
Against shikar, and against Bela Kun,
Against all deeds beneath that bloody moon.
I am the apostle of an ancient peace,
Even spurn the provocation of my fleas.
I am the man that holds his hand. I am
The quixote-fingered mild-horned coptic ram.
With every gentle thing I would consort —
Even gentlemen (if not so prone to sport).
I am the tender moon upon the stream,
I am the shadow just above the dream —
(A hiccup brought this tirade to an end,
Which did throughout its course archly impend,
A good He-hiccup which dispelled that scene,
Illumined by those moons' assorted sheen).