They tell us, dear Kipling, you’re coming to shoot
In the hills of the wide, wild West.
There’s a lot of cost and a risk to boot—
I don’t at all think it is best,
And hope it is only a jest.
For, Rudyard, although you’re a terrible swell
You’re not in high favor out here;
For you said San Francisco was meaner than—well,
You said it was very small beer
And Chicago uncommonly queer.
You put your legs under our tables, you did,
You dined at the Jollidog Club;
And when of your hunger you well were rid
(And your manners too) like a cub
You snarled at the speeches and grub.
You said—I don’t know the one half that you said,
But I know you pretended to meet
Some folk that existed not out of your head
Or an English comical sheet.
And you vilified Kearny street!
Our statesman apparently didn’t get far
In the favor of one so too,
Too utterly fine. Nor the plump cigar
Nor the shiny hat could woo
The sweet and beautiful You.
But hardest of all our hearts you wrung
With assorted pangs and woes
When you said you could speak the English tongue,
But not the American nose.
And you damned our orators o ’s!
For all of this and for all of that
You’d better abate your flame,
And remain where pheasants are tame and fat
And the sportsman takes his aim,
As a general thing, at the game.
Out here when we go to shoot, perhaps
Nor beast nor bird we see;
So we just let go at the Britisher chaps
Who have made remarks too free,
And the same surcease to be.