THE SULTAN AT THE KAISER'S KOURT

Mohammed Dammed, gift of God!

The Sultan's second son,

Enjoys a pilgrimage abroad

With Eitel Fritz the Hun.

These second sons, of sons of guns,

Are sure some friendly foes;

But to what length their friendship runs

Jehovah only knows.

Just now the Sultan, also, dines

At Williams’ kultured kourt,

And downs the Kaiser's doctored wines

While Kaiser downs his porte.

One day young Dammed said to Fritz:

“Who started this fool row?

Whoever did was void of wits,

As you must know by now.”

Said Eitel, “Though I'm from Missour,

Some say it was my Dad;

But as they're going to Bag-dad sure,

He'll wish he never had.”

Said Dammed, “If they bag your Dad

They'll bag my Daddy sure,

And make him wish he never had

Come here to seek a cure.

“Your father promised mine to win

From Cork to Timbuctoo;

If we would throw our Turkey in

Your bloody Pots-dam brew!

“Besides, he promised on demand

Star-eyed Parisian pearls!

Great hunks of Greece, Manhattan and

A thousand chorus girls!

“He also swore by every beard

The prophets ever tore,

That great Mahomet had appeared

Before his chamber door.

“And hurled his mantle — so revered —

The blooming transom o'er;

And hence my foolish father feared

The awful robe he wore!”

Fritz gazed upon the rolling Rhine

With bleary, beery eyes,

And as he sips his foaming stein,

To Dammed thus replies:

“Thy father was a howling mutt

Thus to believe my sire;

For‘ scraps of paper’ never cut

Much ice with any liar.

“That he has promised you too much

Cannot be well denied;

For many things will‘ beat the Dutch,’

I find since Hannah died.

“My dad and‘ first born’ started out,

To eat the world in gobs,

But now they're down to spuds and krout,

And what the army robs.

“I have no patience with the bunch

That failed to win from France,

The crown prince plainly lacks the punch —

Why not give me a chance!

“A million soldiers good and true

Went down to death for him,

And chances still of‘ breaking thru,’

Are daily growing slim.

“I love him not, nor yet his clique,

Who deem themselves so smart:

I'd like to serve them all a kick

Where their Prince Alberts part.

“To whip the French, they'll have to sail

Thru blood to gay Paree —

Here's hoping Poilus will not fail

To make crown prince of me!

“For O, I'd love to have a peep

Into that promised land!”

Thus saying Eitel fell asleep —

And snored to beat the band!

And while Eitel was dreaming,

Of something or other,

The son of the Sultan

Wrote home to his mother.

“On Linden when the sun was low,”

The Sultan's second wrote.

These mild impressions of the foe,

That has his father's goat:

“Dear ma, according to my pledge,

I write these lines to thee,

While sitting on the ragged edge

In dear old Germany.

“I'm at the court of last resort,

Our royal Ali Bill's:

And found my father at the port

Forgetting all his ills.

“Compared with livers over here

Dad's health is fairly good,

And sure, that boy was full of cheer,

On‘ burning deck’ that stood.

“Great doctor Kaiser, best of men!

To cure dad's mal-a-dy;

Injects his Kultur now and then

In dad's anatomy.

“This Kultur is a German germ

That germinates a juice,

Which in its turn creates a worm

That generates the duce!

“I'm not well up on wormy laws,

Nor how this Kultur's spread,

I only know its use will cause

A swelling of the head!

“I think we'll not prolong our stay,

There are no harems here;

The women have no time for play,

The men no time for cheer.

“They's raising crops, but none to sell,

As few would want their goods:

The men are busy raising hell —

The women raising spuds!

“The spuds are raising women's sons —

The sons all fight for Bill,

And thus it runs that all the Huns

Are simply raising hell!

“I heard a‘ concert of the Powers’

One stormy night of late,

And there, of course, the joy was ours

To hear the‘ Hymn of Hate.’

“It seems to be the only song

That all the boches know,

And slips with ease from every tongue

Where‘ Uber alles’ grow.

“They sang the‘ Hymn’ with awful vim,

And turning round our way,

They looked at me and smiled at‘ him,’

As much as if to say,

“‘ There's not a Turk can beat that work,

‘ Twas made in Germany!’ —

‘ That may be so, but by my dirk,

I think the Turk will try!’

“Yea classed with watchdogs of the Rhine,

And dastard deeds they've done,

Our dad, I swear, doth really shine

A saintly paragon!

“He felt ashamed that any race,

Of earth or Hell below,

Could so outshine him to his face —

In hatred of a foe!

“I pity the Armenian

When dad gets back to work again;

For he has tortures now in store

Eclipsing all he knew before!”

“The next upon the program was

The Kaiser's eldest son,

Who sang to thunders of apeplause

‘ Der land vare ve ver-dun’!

“And as his tears on Brussels flow,

His voice pathetic grew,

While singing solemnly and low

‘ I see my Waterloo!

“‘ I'm sick and sore and sorry and

I'm licked and lonely, too:

Vile odders see der Vaterland

I see mine “Vaterloo”! Boo-hoo!’

“Dear mother it was sad I claim

To hear him blubber so;

The blooming boob is not to blame

For what he does n't know.

“From infancy they taught the kid

To bank on‘ right's divine’;

And that no matter what he did

The Lord was with his‘ Line.’

“And so, when shot and shell and trench,

And‘ Me und Gott’ und Co.

Had failed to crush the hated French,

It queered his status quo!

“But Kaiser Bill was on the job,

And said‘ it's getting late;’

We'll dry the tear and swab the sob

And sing the‘ Hymn of Hate.’

And so they sang the‘ hymn’ again

To stimulate the prince:

And encored with that sad refrain

‘ The days of auld lang since.’

“Then Kaiser rising with a spring

Said, Gentlemen a-hem —

Our friend, the Sultan, now will sing

The‘ New Jerusalem’”!

“‘ And after that, excuse the joke,

He'll sing that song of caste,

The “Turkey in the Straw, that broke

The Camel's back at last. "’

“The Kaiser's kounsel knocked the spots

Off father's self command,

For he had such unholy thots,

Anent the Holy Land.

“But he was game as old McBeth,

Resolved to do or die;

The odor of his very breath

Was‘ comin’ thru the rye':

“‘ My breath is hot enough to stew,

My blood is hot within

From being chased like Moses thru

The “Wilderness of Sin.”

“‘ They're chasing me across the sand —

Do n't mention Waterloo!—

From Dan unto Beersheba and

A little further, too.

“‘ The sand is hot along the trail,

Jerusalem how hot —!

And as I hear those bagpipes wail,

I murmur, Oh great Scot!

“‘ Behind each chanter blows a Gael,

Loud, strong and piping hot;

And those en-chanters never fail

To make me, Turkey, trot!

“And woe betide deluded ones

Who meet this kilted race,

And deem the grim denuded ones

But females out of place!

“Engage them in a bayonet charge

And dupes will quickly find,

Those skirts are worn to camouflage

The dynamite behind!

“O demons of the fighting line,

Whose limits are the earth;

The empire great in which you shine

Doth bless thy place of birth.

“Ubiquitous, pugnacious Scot,

You've nobly done your share;

For, ever where the fighting's hot,

The Tartan flutters there!

“Yea Turkey Trot and Tanko tune!

Those dances are the style,

We hop to their compelling rune

From Baltic to the Nile.’

“The Kaiser did n't quite approve

The course the Sultan chose,

And deemed it time that he should move

The Turkish mouth to close.

“‘ He's taken too much Scotch in tow

Their praises thus to sing:

The next we know he'll queer the show

And dance the Highland Fling!’

“And as they led the Turk to bed,

He said the deal was raw —

Yes raw and red,‘ pipe up,’ he said

With‘ Turkey in the Straw!’

“Here Sheik-Ul-Islam bang arose

And cried it was n't fair,

To stem the golden flood that flows

From Allah's chosen heir.

“‘ Mine is the will,’ said Kaiser Bill,

‘ That rules the world today;

No kings or khans or Gods or clans

Can these my words gainsay.’

“And then to prove that he was king

And Ruler over all,

He ordered Hindenburg to sing!

Or rather lead the bawl.

“Then Hindenburg mid many raus

Essayed a clever line;

The song he sang with fervor was,

‘ Fair Byng-in on the Rhine.’

“The song a sad one in its day,

Brought some to verge of tears:

But when they heard Von Hinden bray

The place was near all jeers!

“‘ You're off your line,’ the singers laugh,

Von Hindenburg said‘ Nay,

I'm only wobbling on the staff,

My bass is weak today.’

“‘ Your vocal chords are out of joint,

Your lines are running wrong,

Therefore I think I will appoint

Myself to sing a song.’

“So saying, Kaiser Bill arose

And clearing out his throat,

Assumed that well known lordly pose!

And sang without a note.

“The music with me still abides,

My ears with discord ring:

Dear mother you would split your sides,

To hear the Kaiser sing.

“O, why the agony prolong?

This was the burden of his song:

“‘ On der shore of Italy

Mine Spag-etta vaits for me,

I am longing so for thee

Mine dear Venus by der sea.

“‘ Und anodder maiden fair,

She vos vaiting‘ over there,’

“Und I'll take mine supmarine,

Und mine super-air-machine,

Und‘ Columbia der Chem of der Ocean’

Vill soon be mine own Kaiserine!’”

Here Eitel woke and poked my ribs,

And whispered in my ear,

“The words to suit his royal nibs

Would thusly run, I fear.”

“Fair Saint Helena is the maid,

That calls thee to her side —

She is lonely, I'm afraid,

Since her former war-lord died!”

‘ Twas at this point a warning dire

Came Hertling thru the hall,

And danced in words of lurid fire

Upon the gilded wall.

And “Mene, Mene,” once again

A tyrant's eyes behold,

The writing on the wall was plain

As in the days of old.

And gazing on that fiery scroll

The guilty Kaiser quakes —

May God have mercy on his soul

When Germany awakes!