Observe him, in the best armchair, At ev'ry “Service” Club reclining! How brightly through its close-cropped hair! His polished skull is shining!
His form, inert and comatose, Suggests a stertorous repose. What strains are these that echo clear? What music on our ears is falling?
Through his AEolian nose we hear The distant East a-calling. ( A good example here is found Of slumber that is truly “sound.” )
He dreams of India's coral strand, Where, camping by the Jimjam River, He sacrificed his figure and The best part of his liver,
And, in some fever-stricken hole, Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control. Blow lightly on his head, and note Its surface change from chrome to hectic;
Examine that pneumatic throat, That visage apoplectic. His colour-scheme is of the type That plums affect when over-ripe.
With rising gorge he stands erect, Awakened by your indiscretion, Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked — ( To coin a new expression );
Where stud and collar form a juncture, You contemplate immediate puncture. His head, like some inverted cup, Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes;
His eyebrows rise and beckon up His “porterhouse” moustaches; And you acknowledge, as you flinch, That he's a Colonel — ev'ry inch!
The voice that once in strident tones Across the barrack-square could carry, Reverberates and megaphones A rich vocabulary.
( His “rude forefathers,” you'll agree, Were never half so rude as he. ) As blatantly he catalogues The grievances from which he suffers:—
“The Service gone, sir, to the dogs!” “The men, sir, all damduffers!” In so invet'rate a complainer You recognise the “old champaigner.”
His raven locks ( just two or three ) Recall their retrospective splendour; One of the brave Old Guard is he, That dyes but wo n't surrender;
With fits of petulance afflicted, When questioned, crossed, or contradicted. But as, alas! from poor-man's gout, Combined with chronic indigestion,
The breed is quickly dying out — ( The fact admits no question ) — I'll give you, if advice you're taking, A recipe for Colonel-making.
Select some subaltern whose tone Is bluff and anything but “soul-y;” Transplant him to a torrid zone; There leave him stewing slowly;
Remove his liver and his hair, Then serve up hot in an armchair.
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