I like the WWI "Yanks" a lot.

I've got a friend who wants this one read at his funeral.

The Little Red God

Here's a little red song to the god of guts,
Who dwells in palaces, brothels, huts;
The Little Red God with the craw of grit;
The god who never learned how to quit;
He is neither a fool with a frozen smile,
Or a sad old toad in a cask of bile;
He can dance with a shoe-nail in his heel
And never a sign of his pain reveal;
He can hold a mob with an empty gun
And turn a tragedy into fun;
Kill a man in a flash, a breath,
Or snatch a friend from the claws of death;
Swallow the pill of sure defeat
And plan attack in his slow retreat;
Spin the wheel till the numbers dance
And bite his thumb at the god of Chance;
Drink straight water with whisky-soaks,
Or call for liquor with temperance folks;
Tearless stand at the graven stone,
Yet weep in the silence of night, alone;
Worship a sweet, white virgin's glove,
Or teach a courtesan how to love;
Dare the dullness of fireside bliss,
Or stake his soul for a wanton's kiss;
Blind his soul to a woman's eyes
When she says she loves and he knows she lies;
Shovel dung in the city mart
To earn a crust for his chosen art;
Build where the builders all have failed,
And sail the seas that no man has sailed;
Run a tunnel or dam a stream,
Or damn the men who finance the dream;
Tell a pal what his work is worth,
Though he lose his last, best friend on earth;
Lend the critical monkey-elf
A razor - hoping he'll kill himself;
Wear the garments he likes to wear,
Never dreaming that people stare;
Go to church if his conscience wills,
Or find his own - in the far, blue hills.

He is kind and gentle, or harsh and gruff;
He is tender as love - or he's rawhide tough;
A rough-necked rider in spurs and chaps,
Or well-groomed son of the town - perhaps;
And this is the Little Red God of which I sing,
Who cares not a wallop for anything
That walks or gallops, that crawls or struts,
No matter how clothed - if it hasn't got guts.