The Crown Prince mourns the passing of “The Day,”
“The low-down herd winds back to Germany.
“The loot-squad homeward plods its swagless way,
“And leaves the world to Peace and Victory.
“Now fades the glimmering Weltmacht on the sight,
“And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
“Save where the Kaiser wheels his bonehead flight,
“And frowsy princelings streak for distant folds.
“Save that from Nauen’s undismantled tower
“The moping Hun does to the Yanks complain
“Of such as, having tasted of his power,
“Decline to load him up with grub again.
“Beneath those powdered walls, that abri’s shade,
“Where blasted dug-outs hide a mouldering heap,
“Each in his nameless hole forever laid,
“The Kultur-spreaders of the Rhineland sleep.
“For them no more the Louvain fires shall burn,
“Or strafing Zepp’lins ply their evening care;
“No Yank machine-guns shall their fire return,
“Or Anzac bayonets drive them from their lair.
“Oft did the poilu sweep them from the field,
“Their line full oft the stubborn English broke:
“How frantic did they to the doughboys yield!
“How bowed their ranks to Foch’s giant stroke!
“Now let Derision mock their fiendish toil,
“Their swinish joys, and destiny obscure;
“Let ransomed Europe, with a peaceful smile,
“Collect her war-debts from the vanquished boor.
—James Pontifex, in The Chicago Tribune.