THE FATHERS
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nug at the club two fathers sat,Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.One of them said; "My eldest ladWrites cheery letters from Bagdad.But Arthur's getting all the funAt Arras with his nine-inch gun." "Yes," wheezed the other, "that's the luck!My boy's quite broken-hearted, stuckIn England training all this year.Still, if there's truth in what we hear,The Huns intend to ask for moreBefore they bolt across the Rhine."I watched them toddle through the door--These impotent old friends of mine. "BLIGHTERS" The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grinAnd cackle at the Show, while prancing ranksOf harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din;"We're sure the Kaiser loves the dear old Tanks!" I'd like to see a Tank come down the stalls,Lurching to rag-time tunes, or "Home, sweet Home,"--And there'd be no more jokes in Music-hallsTo mock the riddled corpses round Bapaume.
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