Dear Sir, or Madam...

Dear Sir, or Madam,

As the case may be,

When Britain first,

At Heaving's command,

Arose from out

The azure main,

This was the chawter

Of that land

And gawdian a-a-a-a-angels

Sang this strain:

Do n't you think so?

For my own part,

I am quite sure of it:

Monday night convinced me.

Mafeking night,

As you may remember,

Was a honeyed

And beautiful affair.

But

Peace night,

I think,

Really outdid it in splendours.

At the cafe

Which I most frequent,

All was Peace.

Round the table next mine,

There were seventeen Jews,

With a Union Jack.

Ever and anon

( Between drinks, as it were ),

They held up

That Union Jack

And yelled:

“Shend him victoriouth,

‘ Appy and gloriouth,

Long to-o reign over uth,

& c., & c.”

I wonder, my dear Sir, or Madam,

Why the Jews are so pleased:

I can n't make it out.

Howsomever,

Pleased they are,

And a pleased Jew

Is worth a king's ransom,

Or words to that effect.

Peace, my dear Sir, or Madam,

Is a chaste and choice

Thing.

Outside the aforesaid cafe,

The crowd

Was so numerous

And exuberant

That I was compelled

( Much to my annoyance, of course )

To remain inside

Till closing-time.

Then I went home

In the friendly embrace

Of a four-wheeler.

For a little while,

There was much shouting and yelling and roaring and squeaking and singing;

And then I knew

No more.

My cab

Bowled away

Through the sweet evening air

( That is to say,

If the common or Regent Street growler

Ever does bowl away ),

And all the time

I snored.

Duly awakened

Outside my bungalow,

I raked up the fare,

And, in reply to kind enquiries

In the hall,

I remarked:

“Peace, O woman of mine,

Peace!”