Alf’s Ninth Bit
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
The midnight activities of Whats-his Name,
Scarcely a general now known to fame
Can tell you of that famous day and year.
When feeble Mr. Asquith, getting old,
The destinies of England were almost sold
To a Welsh shifter with an ogling eye,
And Whats-his-name attained nobility.
The Dashing Rupert of the pulping trade,
Rough from the virgin forests inviolate,
Thus rose in Albion, and tickled the State
And where he once set foot, right there he stayed.
Old 'Erb was doting, so the rumour ran,
Ahd Rupert ran the rumour round in wheels,
And David’s harp let out heart-rending squeals:
‘Find us a harpist!! DAVID is the man!!’
Dave was the man to sell the shot and shell,
And Basil was the Greek that rode around
On sea and land, with all convenience found
To sell, to sell, to sell, that’s it, to SELL
Destroyers, bombs and spitting mitrailleuses.
He used to lunch with Balfour in those days
And if the papers seldom sang his praise,
The simple Britons never knew he was,
Until a narsty German told them so.
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of things that happened very long ago,
And scarcely heed one word of what you hear.
Bury it all, bury it all well deep,
And let the blighters start it all over again.
They’ll trick you again and again, as you sleep;
But you shall know that these were the men,
