This is a song of the Tube--
Let us begin it
By cursing the furies who fight and who bite ev'ry night
To get in it;
The folk who see red and who tread on the dead
And climb over the slain,
And who step on your face in the race for a place
In the train.
The pack!
The wolves who attack,
Attempting to kill you until you
Fall flat on your back;
The tigers who tear at your-hair and who swear
As they tread on your neck,
Leaving you battered, bespattered and shattered,
An absolute wreck.
From these sharks,
These mild-looking typists and clerks,
May Heaven defend you. They'll rend you--up-end you
(I carry the marks),
This meek-looking, sleek-looking, weak-looking clique
With the Bolshevist brains
Inflamed at the thought that they ought to have caught
Much earlier trains.
Mourn
For the hat that is flat
And the collar of which you were shorn.
Shed a tear for the dear little ear that you had
And the bags which to rags have been torn.
Weep for the fellow who tried but who died at your side
As the tide swept along.
He was a victim. They tricked him and kicked him to death,
Though he'd done them no wrong.
This is a Song of the Tube.
A ballad of sorrow,
A grey sort of lay of To-day and a greyer To-morrow;
A dismal, abysmal, chaotic, neurotic Creation
Of one who was done after running a mile
To the station.
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[Illustration: _Munitionaire_. "I THINK I'LL MAKE A BID FOR THAT CHAP,
MARIA, FOR A HALL-MAT AND STAIR-CARPET."]
* * * * *