Most people don't know that Joyce Kilmer got his head shot off by a sniper while scouting enemy positions in WWI. What most people DO know is that he WRECKED POETRY FOREVER, with the following garbage:
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
So I thought I'd poop on his grave a bit, like so:
I think that I shall never see
The sniper hiding in that tree.
A sniper whose beady eye is prest
Against against the scope's eye rest;
A sniper that looks at men all day,
And waits for the one to blow away;
A sniper that may in Summer wear
A gille suit and long hair;
Upon whose arm a rifle has lain;
Who even hunts in the rain.
Targets are made of fools like me,
Sticking up for a sniper to see.
Much improved, I'd say.
