"There is a languor in this alien air;

We are reduced, in fact, to famine fare;

Mine, I may say, is dripping based on bread

(Ugh!), and I gather I shall soon be dead.

It is the same all over, East or West;

Hungry each hollow just below the chest.

Daily, I'm told, they rake the very dust,

Hoping in vain to come across a crust.

And, when our God-born Wilhelm brings his Huns

Here, he will find a few odd skeletons."

Such is the tale a Teuton lately writ.

How, then, I ask, does London look so fit?

This is the reason, mainly, I surmise—

We are fed up, of course, with German Lies.