Classic Poem

So let us sing the Song of the Fronts! Each day
By african bush-telegraph let us convey
Covertly the tidings of the Time-god's rebuff —
They have bubbled the world for too long with their bluff.
No more than common snuff-box chat it is
Our rapporteur was lulled with silver-fizz
And Lucky Strikes into a comic grin
And a condition bordering on spleen
At the crisis of his boredom he confessed
That he worked best without his pants and vest —
And had often in the labyrinth at Antibes
Lain sun-cooked side by side with other sheep,
To make himself of Whiteness antipathic,
And meet the wishes of a kohl-lidded sapphic,
Matey and monocled. — Recovering his senses
He leapt up, circumventing their defences
He gave the Time-king tit for tat and quelled
A nude mob though his left leg had gone dead —
In spite of pins and needles put to flight
A posse of amazons, hitting out left and right.
That is the kind of nonsense to broadcast
Disseminating the successes of our counterblast.