The poem
Italian people peaceful are,-- Let it be to their credit. They mostly fail to win a war, --Oh they themselves have said it. "Allergic we to lethal guns And military might: We love our homes and little ones, And loath to fight."
But Teutons are a warrior race Who seek the sword to rattle; And in the sun they claim a place, Even at price of battle. The prestige of a uniform Is sacred in their sight; They deem that they are soldiers born And might is right.
And so I love Italians though Their fighting powers are petty; My heart with sympathy doth go To eaters of spaghetti. And if the choice were left to me, I know beyond a doubt A hundred times I'd rather be A Dago than a Kraut.