A nasty trick I hate;
Now over there they never dine
Before half-after-eight.
Our girls are pretty, I allow;
They 're clever, and all that,
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But after Paris women, - well,
They 're just a trifle flat.
One ought to love one's land, they say;
Well - I 'm no patriot;
I always thought that sort of thing
Was poppycock and rot.
I 'm going out again next spring;
Once there, I shall remain;
And then I hope I never 'll see
This blasted hole again.
J. B.