Oh, for the wings of a dove. Far, far would I fly. Oh, to be a dove. I, too, would stop to pluck an olive leaf, and on it would scratch with my beak, Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin, and then having reached Potsdam, would I drop it at the Kaiser's feet as he strolls about the palace grounds of Sans-souci. Sans-souci, forsooth!
Then would he not conquer the world any more, but wring the necks of all his eagles.
And then on to other isles and scenes, whence the voices are calling——
Oh, for the wings, those free white wings of a dove.
(4) A Prophecy as to the Fate of Turkey.
THE DEATH OF COCK TURKEY
(With apologies to Cock Robin)
"Who killed Cock Turkey?"
"I," said Bull Jack,
"With my usual knack—
I killed Cock Turkey."
"Who helped to do it?"
"I," said old Bruno,
"With my little U know—
I helped to do it."
"Who saw him die?"
"I," said her ally,
With perfectly dry eye—
"I saw him die."
"Who'll have his feathers?"
"I," said the Lion,
"With my usual try-on,
I'll have his feathers."
"Who'll dig his grave?"
"I," said the vulture,
An eagle plus culture—
"I'll dig his grave."
"Who'll grow on his grave?"
"I," said the Lily,
She spoke quite shrilly—
"I'll grow on his grave."
"Who'll write his epitaph?"
"I," said the Armenian,
With the help of the Athenian—
"I'll write his epitaph."
"Who's heir-apparent?"
"I," said Uncle Sam,
"I guess that I am
The heir-apparent."
"Who'll toll the knell?"
"I," said the Kangaroo,
"With the help of the Emu,
I'll toll the knell."
And the Things of the Earth danced in ecstasy—
When they heard of the death of the Cock Turkey—
When they heard of the death of the Cock Turkey.
Pacific Billow.
April, 1917.