TURKEY

The Sultan of the Purple East

Is quite a cynic, in his way,

And really does n't mind the least

His nickname of‘ Abdul the ——’ ( Nay!

I might perhaps come in for blame

If I divulged this monarch's name. )

The Turk is such a kindly man,

But his ideas of sport are crude;

He to the poor Armenian

Is not intentionally rude,

But still it is his heartless habit

To treat him as we treat the rabbit.

If he wants bracing up a bit,

His pleasing little custom is

To take a hatchet and commit

A series of atrocities.

I should not fancy, after dark,

To meet him, say, in Regent's Park.

A deeply married man is he,

‘ Early and often’ is his rule;

He practises polygamy

Directly after leaving school,

And so arranges that his wives

Live happy but secluded lives.

If they attend a public place,

They have to do so in disguise,

And so conceal one-half their face

That nothing but a pair of eyes

Suggests the hidden charm that lurks

Beneath the veils of lady Turks.

Then too in Turkey all the men

Smoke water-pipes and cross their legs;

They watch their harem as a hen

That guards her first attempt at eggs.

( If you do n't know what harems are,

Just run and ask your dear papa. )

Wives of great men oft remind us

We should make our wives sublime,

But the years advancing find us

Vainly working over-time.

We could minimise our work

By the methods of the Turk.