MR. SMILLIE'S LITTLE ARMAGEDDON.
Shall she, the England unafraid,
That came by steady courage through
The toughest war was ever made
And wiped the earth with William Two
(Who, though it strikes us now as odd,
Was, in his way, a sort of little god)—
Shall she that stood serene and firm,
Sure of her will to stay and win,
Cry "Comrade!" on her knees and squirm
To lesser gods of cheaper tin,
Spreading herself, a corpus vile,
Under the prancing heels of Mr. Smillie?
Humour forbids! And even they
Who toil beneath the so-called sun,
Yet often in an eight-hours' day
Indulge a quiet sense of fun—
These too can see, however dim,
The joke of starving just for Smillie's whim.
And here I note what looks to be
A rent in Labour's sacred fane;
The priestly oracles disagree,
And, when a house is split in twain,
Ruin occurs—ay! there's the rub
Alike for Labour and Beelzebub.
And anyhow I hope that, where
At red of dawn on Rigi's height
He jodels to the astonished air,
Lloyd George is bent on sitting tight;
Nor, as he did in Thomas' case,
Nurses a scheme for saving Smillie's face.
Why should his face be saved? indeed,
Why should he have a face at all?
But, if he must have one to feed
And smell with, let the man install
A better kind, and thank his luck
That all his headpiece hasn't come unstuck.
O.S.