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Enter SECOND SONS ————————

Mohammed Dammed, gift of God!

The Sultan's second son,

Enjoys a pilgrimage abroad

With Eitel Fritz the Hun.

These second sons, of sons of guns,

Are sure some friendly foes;

But to what length their friendship runs

Jehovah only knows.

Just now the Sultan, also, dines

At Williams' kultured kourt,

And downs the Kaiser's doctored wines

While Kaiser downs his porte.

One day young Dammed said to Fritz:

"Who started this fool row?

Whoever did was void of wits,

As you must know by now."

Said Eitel, "Though I'm from Missour,

Some say it was my Dad;

But as they're going to Bag-dad sure,

He'll wish he never had."

Said Dammed, "If they bag your Dad

They'll bag my Daddy sure,

And make him wish he never had

Come here to seek a cure.

"Your father promised mine to win

From Cork to Timbuctoo;

If we would throw our Turkey in

Your bloody Pots-dam brew!

"Besides, he promised on demand

Star-eyed Parisian pearls!

Great hunks of Greece, Manhattan and

A thousand chorus girls!

"He also swore by every beard

The prophets ever tore,

That great Mahomet had appeared

Before his chamber door.

"And hurled his mantle—so revered—

The blooming transom o'er;

And hence my foolish father feared

The awful robe he wore!"

Fritz gazed upon the rolling Rhine

With bleary, beery eyes,

And as he sips his foaming stein,

To Dammed thus replies:

"Thy father was a howling mutt

Thus to believe my sire;

For 'scraps of paper' never cut

Much ice with any liar.

"That he has promised you too much

Cannot be well denied;

For many things will 'beat the Dutch,'

I find since Hannah died.

"My dad and 'first born' started out,

To eat the world in gobs,

But now they're down to spuds and krout,

And what the army robs.

"I have no patience with the bunch

That failed to win from France,

The crown prince plainly lacks the punch—

Why not give me a chance!

"A million soldiers good and true

Went down to death for him,

And chances still of 'breaking thru,'

Are daily growing slim.

"I love him not, nor yet his clique,

Who deem themselves so smart:

I'd like to serve them all a kick

Where their Prince Alberts part.

"To whip the French, they'll have to sail

Thru blood to gay Paree—

Here's hoping Poilus will not fail

To make crown prince of me!

"For O, I'd love to have a peep

Into that promised land!"

Thus saying Eitel fell asleep—

And snored to beat the band!

And while Eitel was dreaming,

Of something or other,

The son of the Sultan

Wrote home to his mother.

"On Linden when the sun was low,"

The Sultan's second wrote.

These mild impressions of the foe,

That has his father's goat:

"Dear ma, according to my pledge,

I write these lines to thee,

While sitting on the ragged edge

In dear old Germany.

"I'm at the court of last resort,

Our royal Ali Bill's:

And found my father at the port

Forgetting all his ills.

"Compared with livers over here

Dad's health is fairly good,

And sure, that boy was full of cheer,

On 'burning deck' that stood.

"Great doctor Kaiser, best of men!

To cure dad's mal-a-dy;

Injects his Kultur now and then

In dad's anatomy.

"This Kultur is a German germ

That germinates a juice,

Which in its turn creates a worm

That generates the duce!

"I'm not well up on wormy laws,

Nor how this Kultur's spread,

I only know its use will cause

A swelling of the head!

"I think we'll not prolong our stay,

There are no harems here;

The women have no time for play,

The men no time for cheer.

"They's raising crops, but none to sell,

As few would want their goods:

The men are busy raising hell—

The women raising spuds!

"The spuds are raising women's sons—

The sons all fight for Bill,

And thus it runs that all the Huns

Are simply raising hell!

"I heard a 'concert of the Powers'

One stormy night of late,

And there, of course, the joy was ours

To hear the 'Hymn of Hate.'

"It seems to be the only song

That all the boches know,

And slips with ease from every tongue

Where 'Uber alles' grow.

"They sang the 'Hymn' with awful vim,

And turning round our way,

They looked at me and smiled at 'him,'

As much as if to say,

"'There's not a Turk can beat that work,

'Twas made in Germany!'—

'That may be so, but by my dirk,

I think the Turk will try!'

"Yea classed with watchdogs of the Rhine,

And dastard deeds they've done,

Our dad, I swear, doth really shine

A saintly paragon!

"He felt ashamed that any race,

Of earth or Hell below,

Could so outshine him to his face—

In hatred of a foe!

* * * * *

"I pity the Armenian

When dad gets back to work again;

For he has tortures now in store

Eclipsing all he knew before!"