(After Peace Night)
Dear Sir, or Madam,
As the case may be,
When Britain first,
At Heaving's command,
Arose from out
The azure main,
This was the chawter
Of that land
And gawdian a-a-a-a-angels
Sang this strain:
Don't you think so?
For my own part,
I am quite sure of it:
Monday night convinced me.
Mafeking night,
As you may remember,
Was a honeyed
And beautiful affair.
But
Peace night,
I think,
Really outdid it in splendours.
At the cafe
Which I most frequent,
All was Peace.
Round the table next mine,
There were seventeen Jews,
With a Union Jack.
Ever and anon
(Between drinks, as it were),
They held up
That Union Jack
And yelled:
"Shend him victoriouth,
'Appy and gloriouth,
Long to-o reign over uth,
&c., &c."
I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam,
Why the Jews are so pleased:
I can't make it out.
Howsomever,
Pleased they are,
And a pleased Jew
Is worth a king's ransom,
Or words to that effect.
Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam,
Is a chaste and choice
Thing.