Ye pundits who edit our papers,
How long will it take you to learn
That mere egotistical capers
Are not of the highest concern?
The writers who cut them for ages
In the nostrils of England shall stink,
Yet while able to hamper, you pet and you pamper
These slingers of poisonous ink.
In the stress of a conflict Titanic,
When personal sorrow is mute,
We see them beset with a panic
Of losing their chances of loot;
So they start with indecent endeavour,
On the flimsiest pretext and hint,
Criticising and squealing, but only revealing
Their passionate craving for print.
When they ask you to publish their sloppy,
Sophistical, impudent screeds,
Think, editors, less of "good copy"
And more of the national needs;
For whether they pontify sadly,
Or flout us in cap and in bells,
Pontifical patter and arrogant chatter
Are worse than the enemy's shells.
There's a saying that's frequently quoted,
And cannot be wholly ignored,
That the pen, when its force can be noted,
Is a mightier thing than the sword;
But the mightiness doesn't reside in
The pen, but the writer behind,
Who, if hostile to reason or bent upon treason,
No deadlier weapon can find.
In Peace, in the times that were piping,
When pacifists bade us disarm,
This smart intellectual sniping
Did less recognisable harm;
But now, in the hour of its peril,
The country is sick of its Shaws,
And hurls to the devil the sophists who revel
In pleading the enemy's cause.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tommy_ (_to his pal in middle of charge_). "LOOK OUT,
BILL. YOUR BOOTLACE IS UNDONE!"]
* * * * *