Sometimes good poets write bad things. It happens. We can't be on our A-game all the time. Today's entry showcases a low moment for the otherwise well-respected poet, Edgar A Guest. What sets Guest apart from our previous poet, William McGonagall, is the fact that Guest had the capacity to also write good poems, while McGonagall did not. Ever.
But let's take a look at the following poem, shall we? I'm going to be completely honest, and say that this poem speaks to me on a subconscious level. You see, like the soldier described below, I too am driven to unfathomable blood-lust at the mere sight of peonies or pansies. In fact, the more manicured the garden the more likely I am to join in the battle, bathe in the blood of my enemies, and inhale their wisdom as I crack their bones for marrow. It's nice to see that I'm not alone in this peculiar floral fetish. Although I have a sneaking suspicion tha the soldier mentioned below fights to defend these flower patches. For me, they serve as a catalyst to my unquenchable thirst for domination. With that in mind, enjoy this poem.