"HE-WHO-MUST-BE-OBEYED."
SIR ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP,
He is a formidable chap;
He says the best of this year's fashions
Is to obey his rule for rations.
To every man and every maid
Of every sort of social grade,
Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP.
He is—to put the thing with snap—
He-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed.
Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP,
He simply doesn't care a rap
For any one—his only passion's
Compelling us to keep our rations;
Downrightly he demands our aid;
He will not have the troops betrayed.
Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP,
He is—the right man in the gap—
He-Who-MUST-Be-Obeyed.
Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP,
He says the way to change the map—
The way that all of us can smash Huns—
Is simply sticking to our rations;
Whereas the Hun will have us flayed
Unless the waste of food is stayed.
Sir ARTHUR YAPP, Sir ARTHUR YAPP,
He is right through this final lap—
He-Who-MUST-Be-Obeyed.
W.B.
"TO THE EDITOR OF 'THE TIMES.'
Sir,—Last Sunday evening I read your leader of October 24 as part of my sermon to my village congregation. It went home."—Times.
The Times leader-writer should cultivate a brighter style, more calculated to hold the interest of a congregation.
