REVENTLOW RUMINATES.
I have no wounds to show; the cannon's thunder
Does not impair my rest. It's just as well,
For, though I dote on blood, and thoughts of plunder
Act on my jaded spirit like a spell,
I could not but regard it as a blunder
If Prussia's foremost scribe should stop a shell.
So, while I sport the usual iron crosses,
No feats of valour pinned them on my breast,
But writing up the sanguinary losses
Inflicted by our genius in the West.
The punctual theme of my Imperial boss is
"Turn on a victory!" and I do the rest.
To praise each spasm of ruthlessness that passes
Down cringing Hollweg's compromising spine,
Boost the pretensions of the ruling classes
And hail the Hohenzollerns as divine,
And never hesitate to tell the masses
They are and will continue to be swine:—
These are my task. And there are compensations
About the job that field-grey heroes lack.
Although, e.g., there is a dearth of rations,
I'm not the one that goes without his whack;
Nor do the bayonets of inferior nations
Send nervous chills down my retreating back.
Yet sometimes in the small and early watches
I think, "Good Lord! suppose the U-boats fail!
Or our Colossus of the purple blotches
Should let the Allies get him by the tail!
Suppose this war is one of Deutschland's botches,
And Right, not Might, should happen to prevail!"
There'd be a revolution; nought could stop it.
Not that I'd weep if Wilhelm had to go;
But what if Holy Junkerdom should cop it?
That would be most unfortunate—and, oh!
Supposing Count Reventlow had to hop it,
Kultur would never rally from the blow.
Algol.