THE PRELIMINARY DOVE: ITS PROSPECTS.
Within a little week or two,
So all our sanguine prints declare,
The Dove (or Bird of Peace) is due
To spread its wings and take the air,
Like Mr. THOMAS when he flew
Across the firmamental blue
To join the PREMIER in communion
Touching the Railway Workers' Union.
We've waited many a weary week
With bulging eyes and fevered brow,
While WILSON pressed upon its beak
His League-of-Nations' olive bough,
Wondering what amount of weight
Its efforts could negotiate,
How much, in fact, the bird would stand
Without collapsing on the land.
And, even though it should contrive
To keep its pinions on the flap,
And by a tour de force survive
This devastating handicap,
Yet are there perils in the skies
Whereon we blandly shut our eyes,
But which are bound to be incurred,
And, notably, the Bolshy-bird.
This brand of vulture, most obscene,
May have designs upon the Dove;
Its carrion taste was never keen
On the Millennial reign of Love;
And I, for one, am stiff with fear
About our little friend's career,
Lest that disgusting fowl should maul
And eat it, olive-branch and all.
I mention this to mark the quaint
Notion of "Peace" the public has,
That wants to smear the Town with paint,
To whoop and jubilate and jazz;
And while our flappers beat the floor
There's Russia soaked in seas of gore,
And LENIN waxing beastly fat;
Nobody seems to think of that.
O.S.