Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3815/A Plea for Pegasus
Ye mobilisers of that other arm
Whose might is famed superior to the sabre's,
Who furnish forth the wherewithal to charm
The Special Correspondent to his labours,
And by whose enterprise we're daily fed on
Reports of Armageddon,
List to my plaint. It is not that I tire
Of those despatches—picturesque effusions—
Which by the witness of a later wire
Are proved to rank among the Great Illusions;
Though much to be deplored, such news, I'm willing
Freely to own, is thrilling.
But when your pages, shrunken through the scare
Of that worst blow of all, a paper famine,
Dispense exclusively Bellona's fare,
And, failing battle tales, you simply cram in
Facts about spies, commodities and prices,
I writhe beneath this crisis.
I can support the other pains of war:
Transport disorganised and credit shaken,
The fear of hunger knocking at the door,
And threepence extra on a pound of bacon;
In fact, I'd be the most resigned of creatures
If you'd compose your "features."
Could you not lift a corner of the mask
That makes these solemn days so much more solemn?
A very little ray is all I ask
To light the utter darkness—say a column
Of "stories" which your slang describes as "snappy;"
With these I could be happy;
With these my topic Muse I might entice;
But war has left her mute, and me despairing.
They call for horses; must I sacrifice
The steed with whom I've taken many an airing?
Poor Pegasus—and none too well-conditioned!
Must he be requisitioned?