TURKEY

The Sultan of the Purple East Is quite a cynic, in his way, And really does n't mind the least His nickname of‘ Abdul the ——’ ( Nay!

I might perhaps come in for blame If I divulged this monarch's name. ) The Turk is such a kindly man, But his ideas of sport are crude;

He to the poor Armenian Is not intentionally rude, But still it is his heartless habit To treat him as we treat the rabbit.

If he wants bracing up a bit, His pleasing little custom is To take a hatchet and commit A series of atrocities.

I should not fancy, after dark, To meet him, say, in Regent's Park. A deeply married man is he, ‘ Early and often’ is his rule;

He practises polygamy Directly after leaving school, And so arranges that his wives Live happy but secluded lives.

If they attend a public place, They have to do so in disguise, And so conceal one-half their face That nothing but a pair of eyes

Suggests the hidden charm that lurks Beneath the veils of lady Turks. Then too in Turkey all the men Smoke water-pipes and cross their legs;

They watch their harem as a hen That guards her first attempt at eggs. ( If you do n't know what harems are, Just run and ask your dear papa. )

Wives of great men oft remind us We should make our wives sublime, But the years advancing find us Vainly working over-time.

We could minimise our work By the methods of the Turk.