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Jonathan Swift - On A Cannon
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Begotten, and born, and dying with noise,
The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,
Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,
I`m chiefly unruly when strongest confined.
For silver and gold I don`t trouble my head,
But all I delight in is pieces of lead;
Except when I trade with a ship or a town,
Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark,
No lady was ever more fond of a spark;
The moment I get one, my soul`s all a-fire,
And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.
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