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To those born of great privilege, that they be mindful of mortality.

Four years of private tutors
To learn to read and spell,
His father paid a mighty bill
That his son might be taught well.

Eight years of English boarding school
A kingly sum for every term,
But the teachers were the finest
And the discipline was firm.

Four years at Academy,
A small fortune for each class
Bought him a noble uniform
With gold epaulets and brass.

Now it’s all a horrid irony
As the casket bears him hence;
A peasant soldier shot him
With a ball worth just a pence

This poem is Copyright © scott