Dear Sir or Madam...

Dear Sir or Madam

( As the case may be ),—

Peace hath her victories as well as war

And sometimes

When I have occasion to travel

In this muggy metropolis of ours,

I begin to wonder whether I really am in London,

Or in New York.

On the tops of Atlas‘ buses, and all other‘ buses,

At the dining-tables of hotels at all prices,

At all theatres,

At all music-halls,

At all art galleries,

At all “evenings,”

At all social functions

Metropolitan in their nature

You, my dear Sir or Madam

( As the case may be ),

Flourish and are to the fore,

There are people in the world

Who can pick you out at a glance.

The American woman, I am told,

Wears a certain kind of complexion

And a certain kind of blouse;

The American man, I am told,

Is weedy and anaemic,

A cigarette smoker,

A confirmed spitter,

And a moderate drinker;

He has a soft hat and unlimited dollars:

It is his dollars, of course,

Which are creating all the trouble.

They are beginning to circulate

And “geta-holt”

Wherever honest Britons most do congregate.

My tobacco merchant,

Who sells me two ounces of the real thing every week,

Has just been bought up by an American syndicate;

My barber is in the same case;

And I feel sure

That the woman who brings home “the laundry”

Is seriously considering proposals which have been made to her

By a syndicate of wealthy American gentlemen.

The electric-lighting plant in St. Paul's Cathedral

Was, it seems, paid for by an American.

Another American is doing something or other

With the underground railways,

And a third proposes to erect a building

Which will contain , rooms

On one of the best sites

On the new Holborn-Strand improvement.

Also I am using

An American roll-top desk,

An American typewriter,

An American chair,

American ink,

American pens,

American blotting paper,

American gum,

American paper fasteners,

American notions,

An American pattern of Ode,

And Heaven knows what besides.

I am all American.

I can whistle the “Star-Spangled Banner,”

I can, really!

Shake!

I like you,

There are no flies on you.

How are Mr. Roosevelt and all at home?

Is Pierpont keeping hearty?

Do you miss Carnegie — much?

Have you seen the Amur'can eagle at the Zoo?

Is Monroe's docterin’

Good for dyspepsia?

And it's O to be at home

On the rolling perarie,

With one's money well invested in English concerns,

Run by British labour,

And paying good old, fruity, nourishing British dividends!