THE PRICE OF PEACE

There's music in the Eagle's shriek; There's ditto in the Lion's roar, But discord marks the Bolshevik Because the Bear doth growl no more. The Dogs of War are out of tune,— No harmony doth move the critters: Unless they cease their fighting soon The wounded whelps will have no litters. Jerusalem! the Turk is spent! The bagpipes took his breath, I think. The Crescent now is badly bent, And Allah's cause is on the blink. The Bulgar too has shot his bolt, And soon will quit—the poor pariah! For now there's rumor of revolt In Ananias and Sofia. The Hun is playing with the Slav— The Kremlin Mouse and Potsdam Cat; But Cossack, too, can smear the salve, And 'twixt them twain doth Peace fall flat. Some day the Dove of Peace will swoop With long, befigured bill, and put it Against the Vulture-Kultur coop And make the Prussian Junkers foot it.