TWO
I
the season ’tis, my lovely lambs,
of Sumner Volstead Christ and Co.
the epoch of Mann’s righteousness
the age of dollars and no sense.
Which being quite beyond dispute
as prove from Troy (N. Y.) to Cairo
(Egypt) the luminous dithyrambs
of large immaculate unmute
antibolshevistic gents
(each manufacturing word by word
his own unrivalled brand of pyro
-technic blurb anent the (hic)
hero dead that gladly (sic)
in far lands perished of unheard
of maladies including flu)
my little darlings, let us now
passionately remember how—
braving the worst, of peril heedless,
each braver than the other, each
(a typewriter within his reach)
upon his fearless derrière
sturdily seated—Colonel Needless
To Name and General You know who
a string of pretty medals drew
(while messrs jack james john and jim
in token of their country’s love
received my dears the order of
The Artificial Arm and Limb)
—or, since bloodshed and kindred questions
inhibit unprepared digestions,
