It's always been a mystery
Why there's no word in history of the Battle of Copenhagen.

There's never been a parallel
So far as ever l've heard tell
To the fighting and the biting
And the smashing and the crashing
And the lashing and the slashing
And the gnashing and the gashing,
To the yellishness and smellishness
And international hellishness of the Battle of Copenhagen.

Ten thousand stalwart Swedes
Advancing through the weeds to the Battle of Copenhagen.

Unlimited Italians
In column of batallions at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Ten tribes of red Pawnees
Were sulking behind trees at the Battle of Copenhagen.

A platoon of Albanians,
Supported by Ukranians
And also some Roumanians,
The dull ones and the brainy ones, at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Three thousand greasy Greeks,
Arrayed in leathern breeks
And smelling strong of leeks, at the Battle of Copenhagen.

A quantity of Turks
All waving bloody dirks at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Six hundred Abyssinians,
The fat ones and the skinny ones;
Two hundred of the Czeck
With their battle cry, "By Hzeck!" at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Eighteen hundred Scots,
Their plaidies tied in knots
And dangling pewter pots
(The dirty, low-down sots!) at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Two hundred Asiatics
In vari-colored Batiks—
A company of Japs
Bravely shooting craps—
A myriad of Mongolians,
The sinful and the holy ones,
With their friends, two Anatolians at the Battle of Copenhagen.

From out the Boreal Regions
Came a handful of Norwegians
To oppose these countless legions in the Battle of Copenhagen.

A half a million Jews
Ran back to tell the news of the Battle of Copenhagen.

Out of the sighs a little comes,
But not of grief, for I have knocked down that
Before the agony; the spirit grows,
Forgets, and cries;
A little comes, is tasted and found good;
All could not disappoint;
There must, be praised, some certainty,
If not of loving well, then not,
And that is true after perpetual defeat.

After such fighting as the weakest know,
There’s more than dying;
Lose the great pains or stuff the wound,
He’ll ache too long
Through no regret of leaving woman waiting
For her soldier stained with spilt words
That spill such acrid blood.

Were that enough, enough to ease the pain,
Feeling regret when this is wasted
That made me happy in the sun,
How much was happy while it lasted,
Were vagueness enough and the sweet lies plenty,
The hollow words could bear all suffering
And cure me of ills.

Were that enough, bone, blood, and sinew,
The twisted brain, the fair-formed loin,
Groping for matter under the dog’s plate,
Man should be cured of distemper.
For all there is to give I offer:
Crumbs, barn, and halter.