The speaker looks back on a first crush, and the object of it is a statue of a soldier. He seems ideal: strong, silent, steady, and more real to the speaker than the general he commemorates. He holds his chin up through pigeons and weather, his head pitted like the moon. Next to him, the speaker feels awkward and wants to hide, describing a "head of a beast" and a space left behind that small dogs treat as a joke. The tone turns jokey and self-mocking here, full of odd comparisons like a "unisex fireplug" and a gryphon.
Then things unravel. The speaker huffs glue until language itself falls apart, a pun on "unglued." The ending is abrupt and sad: a war comes, the statue is drafted, melted down, and cast into shot. What stood for lasting nobility becomes ammunition. The mood moves from playful longing to a quiet, bitter loss, suggesting that even the sturdiest ideals can be turned into weapons.