Page:Departmental Ditties and Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads, Kipling, 1899.djvu/157

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How little Begums see the light—deduce
Thence how the True Reformer's child is born.
It's interesting, curious ... and vile.
I told the Turk he was a gentleman.
I told the Russian that his Tarter veins
Bled pure Parisian ichor; and he purred.
The Congress doesn't purr. I think it swears.
You're young—you'll swear too ere you've reached the end.
The End! God help you, if there be a God.
(There must be one to startle Gl-dst-ne's soul
In that new land where all the wires are cut,
And Cr-ss snores anthems on the asphodel.)
God help you! And I'd help you if I could,
But that's beyond me. Yes, your speech was crude.
Sound claret after olives—yours and mine;
But Medoc slips into vin ordinaire.
(I'll drink my first at Genoa to your health)
Raise it to Hock. You'll never catch my style.
And, after all, the middle-classes grip
The middle-class—for Brompton talk Earl's Court.
Perhaps you're right. I'll see you in the Times
A quarter-column of eye-searing print,

A leader once a quarter—then a war;