Sisters, when fashion first decreed
To our devoted sex
That beauty must be broken-kneed
And spinal cords convex;
When sheathlike skirts without a crease
Were potent to attract,
Those were the piping times of peace
When everybody slacked.
But, since the menace of "The Day"
Has commandeered the Nut,
Since _demi-saison_ modes display
A military cut,
It's up to us to do our bit
Each time we take the road,
For, if we wear a warlike kit,
The mien must match the _mode_.
What! would you set a "forage cap"
Upon a drooping brow?
The feet that used to mince and tap
Must stride with vigour now;
No longer must a plastic crouch
Debilitate the knees;
We've finished with the "Slinker Slouch;"
Heads up, girls, if you please!
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[Illustration: PEOPLE WE SHOULD LIKE TO SEE INTERNED.
"YOU REALLY MUST DINE WITH US ON SATURDAY. I SHALL HAVE A COUPLE OF
THE DINKIEST LITTLE WOUNDED SUBS TO SHOW YOU."]
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