Doughboy And
p. 47 · Read in the full issue
Arcady
A YANKEE doughboy, with pep terrific, Has just discovered the grand Pacific!
He swears it reminds him of Pastoral Greece, And, “hellbent now for some primitive peace,”
When he’s cleaned up the war, he is coming right back To build him, in Moresby, a cute grass shack.
He guesses he’ll sprawl and twiddle a flute — Attired in some sunlight, or rami, to suit.
Time being no object, as Thessaly; But here one adds palm trees and reef to the sea.
Our sheep are weary and thin, I’m afraid, And sophisticated the dusky maid.
Though ever so dusky, no Grecian she, And a bit absentminded about your tea.
This tropical life where ones plays on a flute, A fallacy is, though the idea’s cute; For Island-ites work—or grow hungry as sin; Food’s rather monotonous, out of a tin; Whilst the odour of oil from the maiden’s hair Would drive any lover to dull despair.
For any success you must work much harder (Nor may you dither in Hanuabada!) I’d hate to know you were ill-advised— But Moresby was horribly civilised.
Twittle and tootle! Ah, Doughboy free, There’s no such country as Arcady.