Volume 156 — THE PRELIMINARY DOVE: ITS PROSPECTS.

Within a little week or two, So all our sanguine prints declare, The Dove (or Bird of Peace) is due To spread its wings and take the air, Like Mr. THOMAS when he flew Across the firmamental blue To join the PREMIER in communion Touching the Railway Workers' Union. We've waited many a weary week With bulging eyes and fevered brow, While WILSON pressed upon its beak His League-of-Nations' olive bough, Wondering what amount of weight Its efforts could negotiate, How much, in fact, the bird would stand Without collapsing on the land. And, even though it should contrive To keep its pinions on the flap, And by a tour de force survive This devastating handicap, Yet are there perils in the skies Whereon we blandly shut our eyes, But which are bound to be incurred, And, notably, the Bolshy-bird. This brand of vulture, most obscene, May have designs upon the Dove; Its carrion taste was never keen On the Millennial reign of Love; And I, for one, am stiff with fear About our little friend's career, Lest that disgusting fowl should maul And eat it, olive-branch and all. I mention this to mark the quaint Notion of "Peace" the public has, That wants to smear the Town with paint, To whoop and jubilate and jazz; And while our flappers beat the floor There's Russia soaked in seas of gore, And LENIN waxing beastly fat; Nobody seems to think of that.