Just when Kinch thought he could get away from them, they came back to haunt him. He picked up his cell phone in the cabin, where he and the others were enjoying their annual PBA camp-out. Out of all of them, thanks to his embracing of the latest communication technology, he had been the first one to learn how to use the newfangled device. Imagine his surprised when he heard a familiar French voice, bounding with enthusiasm, waking him up at 5:00 in the morning singing a tune:

One is Newkirk, Two's LeBeau,
Three is Carter, Four's Kinchloe
Fearless leader is named Hogan
Stalag Thirteen's Heroes

For picking the locks and opening safes
Playing cards right to keep guards away
Popping car tires with a pencil sharp'ner
Choose the British magician

Mending socks and sewing costumes,
Planting flowers and parachutes,
Cooking up pizza, strudel, and dinners
The French get information

Blustering madly as Adolf Hitler
Diving for lost code books in the well
Blowing up trains and bridges and tunnels
But this Indian's bow is useless

Sitting and waiting patiently
For the next message to come in
On wire tap, phone, or radio
Call the Prince from Detroit

When London asks, he makes a plan
If it's impossible, he's still your man
You think you're smart, Kommandant, it's true
But the joke's on you!

Olsen speaks German, so he works outside
Garlotti, Slim, and Walters know how to hide
Thomas is the man to help sabotage
And Wilson is the medic

There are more, who go unnaméd
Medals unawarded, go unclaiméd
But these diggers and metal-shop workers
Keep bus'ness running smoothly.

One is Newkirk, Two's LeBeau,
Three is Carter, Four's Kinchloe
Fearless leader is named Hogan
Stalag Thirteen's Heroes

Cooking up, cooking up, cooking up pizza
Cooking up, cooking up, cooking up strudel
Cooking up, cooking up, cooking up dinners
The French get information

Blowing up, blowing, blowing up bridges
Blowing up, blowing, blowing up trains
Blowing up, blowing, blowing up tunnels
This Indian's bow is useless

Plotting and planning and scheming, too
Too bad, Kommandant, he can get 'round you
You think you're smart; let's have a Bronx cheer
And the joke's on you!

"Louis, is that you? What are you waking me up so early for?" Kinch asked, grumbling. "You know I'm not as young as I used to be."

"I'm sorry, mon ami, but as soon as I received this letter I just had to share it! Apparently, word about our Poetry Contest was leaked in a commercial during our CBS series and—"

"Poetry contest? Cor, not that again!" a British voice interrupted, having listened in on the line.

"Pierre, have you been listening in all this time?" LeBeau asked.

Dead silence.

"Boy, what are we doing talking on the telephone and the cell phone when we're right in the same room?"

"Louie started it! 'E's the one waking us up at all 'ours of the night, just because a latecomer decided to send in a poem!"

"Excusez-moi, but I happen to think it's a magnifique poem!"

"So, who found out about our missions and decided to send in the poem?"

"Somebody by the name of sparra-music, boy! I mean Colonel. I mean—"

"I know what you mean, Carter. Now, we have a long day ahead of us for reading stories. And—" Hogan shook his head in disbelief. "Next time, if we're in the same room, could we at least talk to each other?"

There were four agreements in three distinct accents, before the rest of them went to bed. All, that is, except for LeBeau, who decided to keep the poem for himself.

Edit: Poem is by sparra-music, story is by Marie1964.