Now for the fourth time since you broke your word,
And started hacking through, the seasons' cycle
Brings Autumn on; the goose, devoted bird,
Prepares her shrift against the mass of MICHAEL;
Earth takes the dead leaves' stain,
And Peace, that hardy annual, sprouts again.
Yet why should _you_ support the Papal Chair
In fostering this recurrent apparition?
Never (we gather) were your hopes more fair,
Your _moral_ in a more superb condition;
Never did Victory's goal
Seem more adjacent to your sanguine soul.
HINDENBURG holds your British foes in baulk
Prior to trampling them to pulp like vermin;
Russia is at your mercy--you can walk
Through her to-morrow if you so determine;
There is no France to fight--
Your gallant WILLIE'S blade has "bled her white."
In England (as exposed by trusty spies)
We are reduced to starve on dog and thistles;
London, with all her forts, in ashes lies;
Through Scarboro's breached redoubts the sea-wind whistles:
And Margate, quite unmanned,
Would cause no trouble if you cared to land.
Roumania is your granary, whence you draw
For loyal turns a constant cornucopia;
Belgium, quiescent under Culture's law,
Serves as a type of Teutonised Utopia;
And, as for U.S.A.,
They're scheduled to arrive behind The Day.
Why, then, this talk of Peace? The victor's meed
Lies underneath your nose--why not continue?
_Because humanity makes your bosom bleed_;
So, though you have a giant's strength within you,
Your gentle heart would shrink
To use it like a giant--I don't think.