Now that little Venezuela Has her navy back in tow, With the “allies” in the distance Waiting for the promised “dough”,
It may not be deemed improper For the mind that loves to roam, Just to focus its attention On some matters nearer home.
We are also growing weary Of the “war clouds in the East”, Which bob up to entertain us Once or twice a year at least.
And we'd bear the “bobbing” better If it did not always bring To the “concert of the Powers” An unfailing chance to sing.
They are masterful musicians With chin music as their forte, And a penchant strong for love songs When they serenade the Porte!
While they sing the Sultan dances Like a strolling Dago's bear, Till one really feels the presence Of roast Turkey in the air!
Thus they exorcise the spirit Of destruction in the Turk, And adjure the imp to vamoose And forego its bloody work.
Doth he vamoose? Yes, a season, To return with “seven more,” While the Sultan's still insultin’ And his fingers still in gore.
But we'll leave this doubtful concert And its harem-scarem tones, Meant to drown the voice appealing In the dying Christian's groans;
And examine rather closer Into troubles of our own. To uproot the crops of mischief Which old Satan may have sown.
People must with friendly feelings, And the best intentions, try To elucidate the muddle Termed “Alaskan boundary.”
There's a rumble in that region, And it should n't louder grow — Just a little cloud of worry ‘ Mid the flurry of the snow.
Why, oh why, should kindred people Quarrel over hunks of ice? If they knew each other better They would settle in a trice.
But Miss Canada is frigid And Columbia is cold, So in presence of the couple There's an iciness untold.
Harken to the one bemoaning Up among the northern lights, How that‘ tother is a “squatter” And encroaching on her rights.
“It is mine by deed and title, For as everybody knows — Not to mention Rudyard Kipling — I am‘ Lady of the Snows’.
“See my cousin, Hail Columbia, Who has settled thereabout, She will soon take Root and Lodge there If I do not Turner out.
When I asked her‘ please to vacate’, Can you guess the jade's response? Why, she sweetly smiled and answered, ‘ After you, my dear Alphonse’!”
Thus the question rests at present, Till the arbitrators meet; And we trust when said time cometh They will gravely take their seat
Near the base of all the trouble, On the apex of the Pole, Where they'll exercise the virtue At the least of keeping cool!
Furl your “colors,” then, ye fair ones, In a truce of amity, Till this august body settles Where the “boundary” should be;
We've emerged from clouds of discord And should never more go back Whether Skagway's‘ neath Old Glory Or beneath the Union Jack!
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