Blow, then, with all your gales and clear our skies!
We did not win that War the other day
To please the Huns or gladden TROTSKY'S eyes
By fighting, kin with kin, this futile way;
Blow—not too hard, of course—I should not care
To inconvenience Mr. WILSON on his voyage—
But just enough to clean the germy air
And usher in the universal Joy-Age.
O.S.