Here's a sonnet I wrote for my poetry class. Perhaps I will post a revised version in the Writing section soon. Also I'll post my lament in quatrains once I replace the pronouns.

The Civil Child

With fist at hip and sword in hand, he stands
But on his chest just seven buttons march.
His lips still horde their baby fat, and strands
Of hair escape his hat to form an arch.
A sideways glance from eyes so proud betrays
A fidgety thought -- and puggish nose retreats
Beneath the apple cheeks, while ears find ways
To fly away -- afraid of near-defeats?
The little man, erect and short, with stripes
Upon his shoulders, buckled belt around
His waist, today he stands in wait for pipes
To call him with the rats -- and hears the sound.
But child of war, stay still beside the chair
Let battle-breaking rumbles call elsewhere.