"There is a languor in this alien air;
We are reduced, in fact, to famine fare;
Mine, I may say, is dripping based on bread
(Ugh!), and I gather I shall soon be dead.
It is the same all over, East or West;
Hungry each hollow just below the chest.
Daily, I'm told, they rake the very dust,
Hoping in vain to come across a crust.
And, when our God-born Wilhelm brings his Huns
ere, he will find a few odd skeletons."
Such is the tale a Teuton lately writ.
How, then, I ask, does London look so fit?
This is the reason, mainly, I surmise—
We are fed up, of course, with German Lies.