Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop
May cost my party a vote.
With statements tattered and worn,
With facts distorted and cooked,
The statesman may hope that his share in the war
Will perchance be overlooked,
Turk, Turk, Turk!
'Tis vain the truth to shirk,
While thousands of bleeding corpses cry,
"Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die,