Our times, dear, are truly Titanic,
Perfection seems Science's goal--
Dim, distant, dark Science's goal--
But we're still a bit given to panic.
Monopolies moodily roll--
Monopolies restlessly roll--
That's why there's a movement volcanic
That stirs us from pole unto pole--
A moaning that's vainly volcanic,
In the realms of the (Telegraph) pole.