Volume 153 — TO THE POTSDAM PACIFIST.

Now for the fourth time since you broke your word, And started hacking through, the seasons' cycle Brings Autumn on; the goose, devoted bird, Prepares her shrift against the mass of MICHAEL; Earth takes the dead leaves' stain, And Peace, that hardy annual, sprouts again. Yet why should you support the Papal Chair In fostering this recurrent apparition? Never (we gather) were your hopes more fair, Your moral in a more superb condition; Never did Victory's goal Seem more adjacent to your sanguine soul. HINDENBURG holds your British foes in baulk Prior to trampling them to pulp like vermin; Russia is at your mercy—you can walk Through her to-morrow if you so determine; There is no France to fight— Your gallant WILLIE'S blade has "bled her white." In England (as exposed by trusty spies) We are reduced to starve on dog and thistles; London, with all her forts, in ashes lies; Through Scarboro's breached redoubts the sea-wind whistles: And Margate, quite unmanned, Would cause no trouble if you cared to land. Roumania is your granary, whence you draw For loyal turns a constant cornucopia; Belgium, quiescent under Culture's law, Serves as a type of Teutonised Utopia; And, as for U.S.A., They're scheduled to arrive behind The Day. Why, then, this talk of Peace? The victor's meed Lies underneath your nose—why not continue? Because humanity makes your bosom bleed; So, though you have a giant's strength within you, Your gentle heart would shrink To use it like a giant—I don't think. O.S.