Grand-père

And so when he reached my bed

The General made a stand:

“My brave young fellow,” he said,

“I would shake your hand.”

So I lifted my arm, the right,

With never a hand at all;

Only a stump, a sight

Fit to appal.

“Well, well. Now that's too bad!

That's sorrowful luck,” he said;

“But there! You give me, my lad,

The left instead.”

So from under the blanket's rim

I raised and showed him the other,

A snag as ugly and grim

As its ugly brother.

He looked at each jagged wrist;

He looked, but he did not speak;

And then he bent down and kissed

Me on either cheek.