Ode to the "Parrot".. (Lieut. J.N. Lamont).
You are old, Father Lamont, the subaltern wailed,
Though in years you're no greater than I,
Yet to cheat you your bearer has signally failed,
What makes you so awfully fly?
In the fat days of peace, said the sage to the youth,
I collected the dibs for my clan
And chasing the bawbees, to tell you the truth,
Has made me a gey carfu' man.
You are old, said the youth, as I mentioned before
and your nose has become like a beak
Yet you fly to your perch on the top of the door
In a manner that's perfectly "chic".
In the days of my youth, was the ancient's reply,
I was only an average mortal
But now I'm a god and my station's so high
That I'm bound to sit over the portal.
You are old, said the lad, yet you stuff your old crop
With maund upon maund of mixed biscuit
Which your gizzard will certainly damage and stop
I wonder you're anxious to risk it!
Do you think it's my job to sit here and talk rot,
said the godling, from midnight to noon?
In my worshipper's language, "Chelo'" you young sot,
Hut ??? sir, and drill your platoon!
1915.
W.P. Hewett.