ALEXANDER THE GREAT

Alexander the Great was a victim of fate,

And he sighed there was naught to delight him

When he brandished his sword and defiantly roared

And could not get a country to fight him.

All the armies he'd chased, all the lands laid to waste,

And he clamored for further diversions;

And our history speaks of his grip on the Greeks

And his hammerlock hold on the Persians.

Though the Gordian knot, cut in two, in a spot

In his palace was labeled a relic,

Though Bucephalus, stuffed, gave him fame, he was huffed —

He was grouchy and grumpy, was Aleck.

And the cause of his woe, he would have you to know,

Was the fact that he never was able

To conduct a big scrap that a versatile chap

Of a war correspondent would cable.

‘ Stead of being quite glad, he would grow very sad

When he told of the fellows who'd fought him,

As he thought of the lack of the clicking kodak

In the hands of a man to “snapshot” him.

We are told that he wept, and in dolefulness crept

Through his palace — the reason is hinted:

There were not at that time magazines for a dime,

And his articles could not be printed.

Though it may seem unkind, ere his life we've outlined,

We must say in some ways he was hateful;

And in truth, we have heard he went back on his word,

And was not Alexander the Grateful.