_Or, Rubbish to be Shot at the Pole._
Dr. ANDRÉE, if you're going to the Pole by a balloon,
(_Punch_ hopes you'll be successful, and he trusts you'll come back soon,)
_Could_ you find a little room for some companions in your car?
We have some whom we should like to see thus travelling afar.
_Place aux dames!_ There's the New Woman whom we really do not want,
And the Female-suffrage female, and the shrieking slave of Cant;
There's the Fashionable Mother who constricts her daughters' waists,
There's the Woman with a Past, who so pollutes the public tastes;
There's the female who is masculine, the male effeminate,
The Hedonist of hollow heart and paradox-muddled pate;
There's that big bore the Degenerate, he'll turn up, divil doubt him!
And that other bore, almost as big, who writes big books about him;
There's the pedlar of Emotions, and the petty foe of Morals,
There's the stirrer up in newspapers of journalistic quarrels;
There's the thorough paced denouncer of Creation's horror--Man;
There's the muckrake wielding maunderer on the Mysteries of Pan;
There's the dirty dynamiter, the neurotic novelist!--
Oh, take them to the Pole, Sir, I'll be happy to assist,
And drop them there--and _leave_ them there--"they never will be missed!"
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On account of the vogue for cycling in Battersea Park this summer, the
past two months will be remembered as the "Bike-at-Batterseason '95."
* * * * *