Volume 152 — REVENTLOW RUMINATES.

I have no wounds to show; the cannon's thunder Does not impair my rest. It's just as well, For, though I dote on blood, and thoughts of plunder Act on my jaded spirit like a spell, I could not but regard it as a blunder If Prussia's foremost scribe should stop a shell. So, while I sport the usual iron crosses, No feats of valour pinned them on my breast, But writing up the sanguinary losses Inflicted by our genius in the West. The punctual theme of my Imperial boss is "Turn on a victory!" and I do the rest. To praise each spasm of ruthlessness that passes Down cringing Hollweg's compromising spine, Boost the pretensions of the ruling classes And hail the Hohenzollerns as divine, And never hesitate to tell the masses They are and will continue to be swine:— These are my task. And there are compensations About the job that field-grey heroes lack. Although, e.g., there is a dearth of rations, I'm not the one that goes without his whack; Nor do the bayonets of inferior nations Send nervous chills down my retreating back. Yet sometimes in the small and early watches I think, "Good Lord! suppose the U-boats fail! Or our Colossus of the purple blotches Should let the Allies get him by the tail! Suppose this war is one of Deutschland's botches, And Right, not Might, should happen to prevail!" There'd be a revolution; nought could stop it. Not that I'd weep if Wilhelm had to go; But what if Holy Junkerdom should cop it? That would be most unfortunate—and, oh! Supposing Count Reventlow had to hop it, Kultur would never rally from the blow.