And now, a sonnet.
Duke Franz went foul in year one nine one four:
Gavrilo Princip saw him striding by,
He pulled a gun and shot him dead, did mourn.
“No!” said the North, murderer meant to die,
And then it ensued: two times two-three, one:
Russia, Germany, the French, the U.K.,
The war to end others; one no one won.
It took the last, the woe’d U.S. of A.
At four times ten, Kaiser said enough: end.
In ten plus one, all around: Paris, France,
The world set it busy, a world to mend,
War is fin: the streets awake, all a-dance.
One evil dead, another born in med…
In two times ten, the man to be self-fed.