The Sultan is a Muscleman;
He’s full of vim and whack,
And if you want a tussle man
His back.
Because he’s a Mahometan,
They think him mighty slow.
He’s quicker than a comet—an
Auto!
He doesn’t often waste a fit,
But throws it where ’twill tell.
Blood? Yes, he likes the taste of it
Right well.
That angel, the Bulgarian,
Is just a bird of pray.
His soul’s as white as Parian,
They say.
His halo fits him pleasantly
And he has two great wings.
He tunes his harp, and presently
He sings:
“My shoulder inoffensively
Bears this dear little chip.
Pass on, wayfarer, pensively—
Don’t flip.”
The thoughtful Moslem pins the chip
Fast with a dagger. Oh,
That angel-person’s sins of lip
Are low!
The Armenian is a sassy cur,
Cantankerous to boot,
Nor draws the line at massacre
And loot.
But when the Kurd in revelry
Slays, burns, imprisons, fines,
That bad gent to the devil he
Consigns.
My muse cannot exemplify
The Macedonian—she
Refuses to attempt to fly
So free.
Old Philip, King of Macedon,
Is many ages dead;
We have this little gassy don
Instead.
Is he a Unitarian,
A Moslem, Buddhist, Jew—
Or just a gowned barbarian
With trousers on his Mary Ann?
Don’t know—do you?