Classic Poem

When earth was new and life was true,
And men went brown and bare,
They fought on land, and they killed by hand,—
Their scrappin' was on the square.
'T was blow for blow, with never a show
Of bands or banners unfurled,
And th' strong men lived whilst th' weak ones died—
For that was th' way of the world.
(And it war n't so bad, when you stop to think,
Fer the health of a bran' new world!)

As th' ages passed, man learnt, at last,
The value of strategy,
And he fought his fight with skill, not might,
Whether on land or sea.
It was swing and smash,—a stab and a gash
In th' back,—if a back was near—
Yet th' “rules” of the game was jest th' same;
T' lose was his only fear.
(Th' man who fights ain't thinkin' of rules—
T' lose is his only fear!)

Then th' Twelve-inch came “to silence th' name
Of War, that belongs to th' Past.”
But th' armor-plate growed thicker than hate,
An' th' smokeless follored fast.
Bigger and better they built their guns,
And bigger th' warships gray,
Till they measured their strength by weight and length,
And not by the men—not they!
(Peacefully fightin' their wars, at home,
But not with th' men—not they!)

And now they swear that up in th' air
The nations will settle their scores;
So it 's “Good-bye, lad,” to th' ironclad,
“So long!” to the black 12-bores.
“The airship fleet will never meet
Save only to arbitrate,
For war is done, as it should be done!”
Mebbe it is … But wait!
(For somethin' tells me it ain't QUITE through
As long as two men can hate!)