When rivals in the Party fray,
Their sluggish blood unwarmed,
An old-world courtesy display
('My honourable friend,' they say,
'Is surely misinformed?')
Such feeble methods I despise,
My principles are higher;
Opponents I apostrophise
With piercing and persistent cries
Of 'Renegade!' or 'Liar!'
For I can hear, above the din,
A voice within my breast
That bids me use such language, in
The public interest.
Some golfers, when they miss a putt,
Look mortified or frown,
Keeping their lips discreetly shut,
They say 'Good gracious!' or 'Tut-tut,
'That makes me seven down!'
Such self-control is hard to bear,
I loathe their sickly phrases,
And much prefer, to clear the air,
An honest 'Blast!' or 'Blazes!'
Explaining, if the caddies grin
Or partners should protest,
That I am simply swearing, in
The public interest!
When ladies whom I chance to meet
In crowded Tube or tram
Attempt to oust me from my seat
Or tread upon my tender feet,
I always murmur 'Damn!'
And when upon the telephone,
'Exchange' remarks, 'Line's busy!'
My choice of language, and its tone,
Makes hardened operators groan
And supervisors dizzy.
For I maintain, through thick and thin,
Discourtesy is best,
So long as you display it in
The public interest!

THE MILITANTS

Though Man, who alas! is our master,
Declares us unfit to be free,
Ignoring the placards we playfully plaster
On paling and pavement and tree;
And though ev'ry journal, with cunning infernal,
Our speeches refuses to quote,
Our conduct bears witness to feminine fitness,
And shows we are ripe for the Vote!
On roofs and in cellars we've hidden,
We've chained ourselves firmly to posts,
Attended receptions, without being bidden,
And heckled political hosts.
With dog-whip and missile, with bell and with whistle,
Our cause we have sought to promote;
By scratching and squalling, by biting and brawling,
We've proved ourselves fit for the Vote!
What tales of our feats could be written!
Of damage we love to inflict,
Of constables wounded with hatpins, and bitten,
Of Cabinet Ministers kicked!
Of how, when in Holloway, nought would we swallow
Until it was forced down our throat,
To prove to the nation by auto-starvation
How worthy we were of the Vote!
The gardens at Kew we've uprooted,
We've ruined the 'greens' on the links,
The letters of innocent strangers polluted
With poisonous acids and inks!
Like lunatics turning to wrecking and burning,
For others we care not a groat,
But meditate gaily fresh outrages daily,
To prove ourselves fit for the Vote!

PLAGUES AT THE PLAY

['Last night even the postprandial conversation of some well-dressed members of the audience failed to neutralise the effect of the music, though they did their best.'—The Times.]

'Well-dressed,' and well-fed, and well-meaning (God knows!),
They arrive when the play is half ended;
As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows,
They beruffle your hair and they tread on your toes,
Quite unconscious of having offended!
Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit,
And uncloak in a leisurely fashion,
While they act as a blind to the people behind
Who grow perfectly purple with passion;
Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled,
Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly nettled!
A programme, of course, they've forgotten to buy
(This in audible accents they mention),
And whenever some distant attendant they spy,
They halloo or give vent to remarks such as 'Hi!'
In attempts to attract her attention.
After this (which is worse) they will loudly converse,
And enjoy a good gossip together
On the clothes they have bought and the colds they have caught,
On the state of the crops and the weather,
Till they leave, in the midst of some tense 'situation,'
That's spoilt by their flow of inane conversation.
O managers, pray, am I asking too much
If I beg that these 'persons of leisure'
Be kept in a sound-proof and separate hutch,
If their nightly theatrical manners are such
As to spoil other playgoers' pleasure?
For it can't be denied that a playhouse supplied
With a cage for such talkative parrots,
Or a series of stalls (of the kind that have walls
And some hay and a couple of carrots)
Would bestow on the public a boon and a blessing
And deal with an evil in need of redressing!

A SUGGESTION

[Addressed to the lady or gentleman who had abstracted two pictures from the Royal Academy.]

My friend, why did you hold your hand,
Why falter, why desist,
When there are treasures in the land
That never would be missed?
Next time you plunder the R.A.,
Its precincts do not quit
Till you have made, as plumbers say,
A thorough job of it.
Take ev'ry so-called work of art
And (with a nation's thanks) depart!
Remove each Royal Portrait, do,
Each Presentation Bust,
And all those Problem Pictures, too,
Which have to be discussed.
Take ev'ry daub that's labelled 'Spring'
Or 'Chelsea in a Fog,'
Or 'Home again!' or 'Baby's Swing,'
Or 'Mrs. A. and Dog.'
Take 'Hanging up the Mistletoe!'
And (with the public's blessing) go!
Then prosecute your search elsewhere,
If fame you wish to win;
Take Shakespeare's bust from Leicester Square
And Cleopatra's Pin.
Take sculptured Statesmen, hand to breast,
Who on our pavements smile,
And half the statues that congest
The Abbey's crowded aisle.
And, last of all, whate'er befall,
Don't fail to take the Albert Hall!

THE MODEL MOTORIST