The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)

And so, O Sons of Abraham, I say
You've come into your own and come to stay!
The Promised Land is yours, but what is more,
The Earth and Seas and Skies with all their store.
You wandered from Judea, but why care?
Because your home is here as well as there;
And we would miss you just as much, I vum,
As those who wait you in Capernaum;
For Broadway would despair and sackcloth don
If you should leave New York for Ascalon.

No more, thank God! will Infidels profane
Jerusalem. For centuries the stain
Of Turkish rule has laid its unclean hand
Upon the Altars of the Holy Land.
But now the Prophet's promise is fulfilled,
And Jews and Gentiles are rejoiced and thrilled
As Men of Allenby, God's Sword, restore
The Holy City: yours forevermore.

ENGLAND

O, Mighty Atlas, thou hast borne the load
Of hapless peoples smarting from the goad
Of Tyranny, until thy giant strength
Seems overtaxed and doomed to break at length.
Unless thy vim endures with steadfast force;
Unless thy Ship of State keeps on its course;
Unless thou gird thy loins and stand astride,
Colossus-like, the struggles that betide—
While all the Furies strive, the Turk and Hun,
To sap thy power—undo what thou hast done—
Of what avail will all thy efforts be
Against the tottering walls of Tyranny?
And to what purpose will have lived thy men
Who won imposing fame with sword or pen?
And what, I pray, will all thy thousands slain
Avail thy Empire if they've died in vain?

PREPAREDNESS

The Ostrich has his wings, but not for flight;
He flies on foot when danger is in sight;
His mate lays eggs upon the desert reaches
And "sands" them over when the leopard screeches.
The eggs, thus mounded, fall an easy prey
To feline foragers who slink that way.
The Ostrich, thus, guards not his nest: instead
He hides, in burning sands, his shameless head
And lets his monoplane and rudder be
Stripped of their plumage by an enemy.

Ostriches should Carry
Their Eggs in a Basket
And use their Feathers
For Dusting over the Desert.

The Squirrel is quite a different kind of fowl:
He works while others sleep, the sly old owl!
And stores up food, against the rainy day,
In secret nooks, from forest thieves away.
When winter comes, or when besieged by foes,
Securely housed he feasts and thumbs his nose
And ridicules starvation: he's immune!
While others, shiftless, sing another tune.
The Squirrel, you see, is much misfortune spared
In times of stress because he is prepared.

Improvident Nuts
Should Tear a Leaf
From the Squirrel's Diary.

A Heifer on the Railroad Crossing stood
Chewing Contentment's Cud, as heifers should,—
When, rushing madly, "late again," there came
The Noonday Mail. The Heifer was to blame
For choosing her position, I would say,
Because the Engine had the Right of Whey.
The Cow was unprepared! Her switching tail
Failed signally to flag the Noonday Mail.
But why keep beefing over milk that's spilled?
She heeded not the sign and thus was killed.

Heifers with Unprotected
Flanks should not Invite
Rear-guard Actions.

The Busy Bee improves the shining hours
And gathers honey from the fragrant flowers.
When Winter comes, forsaking field and rill,
He hivernates, but lives in clover still.
While Famine stalks without, his Home, Sweet Home
Is stored with tempting food from floor to dome.
He never lacks, nor has to buy, but cells
His surplus food gleaned from the flower-fringed dells.
A thrifty fellow is the Busy Bee
And fortified against Emergency.

A Bee's Ears
Contain no Wax