Some folk believe that wars commence
From greed of gain or self-defence;
But Austrian sages have divined
Incitements of a different kind.
The Servian Army (so 'tis said)
Has run completely out of bread,
And every day the hungry souls
Fight Austria for Vienna rolls.
The Austrian battles with the Tsar
Because he dotes on caviare,
And must that monarch's realm invade
Because he likes it freshly made.
The Russians cannot do without
The soul-sustaining sauerkraut,
And march their armies to the West
Because Berliners make the best.
The German confidently thinks
That absinthe is the prince of drinks,
And therefore must attack the land
That keeps the most seductive brand.
The Frenchman, tired of his ragoûts,
Covets the meat that Teutons use,
And charges like an avalanche
For German sausage, not revanche.
The Briton, vexed by rules austere,
Has heard the fame of German beer,
And nought his onward march can stop
While Munich holds a single drop.
The bold Italian stands prepared
With rifle loaded, sabre bared,
And to a questioning world replies,
"Who touches my spaghetti, dies!"