Volume 152 — TO PARIS BY THE "HINDENBURG LINE."

That man at dawn should certainly be shot For being such a liar, Who says that you, my HINDENBURG, are not As high as our All-Highest, mate of GOTT (Or even slightly higher). Stout thruster, in the push you have no peer, Yet more supremely brilliant This crowning stroke of progress toward the rear, This strong recoil from which with heartened cheer We hope to bound resilient. Lo! the creative spirit's vital spark! None but a genius, we say, Would make his onset backward in the dark Or choose this route for getting at the Arc De Triomphe (Champs Elysées). Nor to your care for detail are we blind; Your handiwork we view in The reeking waste our warriors leave behind; We read the motions of a master-mind In that red trail of ruin. And not alone by yonder blackened beams, By garth and homestead burning, You put the sanguine enemy off your schemes, Who gaily follows up and never dreams That we'll be soon returning; But by these speaking signs of godly hate, This ruthless ravage (prosit!), You teach a barbarous world how truly great Our German Gospel, and how grim the fate Of people who oppose it! Then praised be Heaven because we cannot fail With HINDENBURG to boss us; And for each hearth stript naked to the gale Let grateful homage plug another nail In your superb colossus.