They'll rend you--up-end you
(I carry the marks),
This meek-looking, sleek-looking, weak-looking clique
With the Bolshevist brains
Inflamed at the thought that they ought to have caught
Much earlier trains.
Mourn
For the hat that is flat
And the collar of which you were shorn.
Shed a tear for the dear little ear that you had
And the bags which to rags have been torn.
Weep for the fellow who tried but who died at your side
As the tide swept along.
He was a victim. They tricked him and kicked him to death,
Though he'd done them no wrong.
This is a Song of the Tube.
A ballad of sorrow,
A grey sort of lay of To-day and a greyer To-morrow;
A dismal, abysmal, chaotic, neurotic Creation
Of one who was done after running a mile
To the station.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Munitionaire_. "I THINK I'LL MAKE A BID FOR THAT CHAP,
MARIA, FOR A HALL-MAT AND STAIR-CARPET."]
* * * * *
From a report of the Coal Commission:--
"The next witness was Lord Dynevor.
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