De Puyster Jones at twenty-three
Is not a pleasant sight to see;
Although his duds cost many dollars,
From silken socks to five-ply collars,
Though shaved and bathed and deftly scented—
One feels he should have been prevented.
His lips hang loose, his chest caves in,
His face is minus brow or chin;
And when one hears the creature chatter
Somehow it simply doesn't matter.
Yet young De Puyster Jones has money,
And when his money talks—it's funny
(Or sad) to note that many listen;
His brain is slime, and slime will glisten.
In fact, the moron, more's the pity,
Is sometimes spoken of as witty;
And though obscenely idiotic,
His ancient anecdotes erotic
Are often greeted with guffaws;
And his views meet with wild applause.
Now what—I ask in thunderous tones—
What are the views of D. P. Jones?
"Patriotism's just an ism!
A fellah ought to be
Above the lingo
Of the Jingo;
Flags don't appeal to me."
"If a chap's rational, he's international;
He knows there's nothing in
The stuff that's local;
I'm not a yokel
To cheer when the bands begin."
'And politicians who yap of missions,
Ideals, and all that junk—
Just let 'em gab, brag,
And hold the grab-bag;
But don't fall for their bunk!"
"You take this crisis! A glance suffices
To wise you what it means;
And journalist fakers
Stuffing millions in their jeans!"
"We're safe and happy, so why get scrappy?
Say, what's the sense in war?
For God's sake chuck it!
The whole show's muck! It
'S not what I'm living for!"
"Not this little Willy! I'm not that silly—
No drums and guns for mine!
What's the odds if they rat us?
They can't get at us.
Georgie's fleet is doing fine!"
Such—I repeat in thunderous tones—
Such are the views of D. P. Jones.