The business of the house In every room is over malt; the cow Must be well fed for milk. And if you have No feudal dues, outlandish taxes, still The game of old goes on, has only changed Its dominant form. Grimalkin, Adam Smith Spied all the rats, and all the tricks of rats, Saw in his day the rats crawl hawser ropes And get on ships, embark for Indias, And get the malt; and now the merchant ships For China bound, for Africa, for the Isles Of farthest seas take rats, who slip aboard And eat their fill before the patient cow, Milked daily as before can lick her tongue Against a mouthful of the precious stuff. You have your eastern question, and your Congo. France wants Morocco, gives to Germany Possessions in the Congo for Morocco. The dogs jump into China, even we Take part and put the Boxers down, lay hands Upon the Philippines, and Egypt falls To England, all are building battle ships. The dachshund barking he is crowded out, Encircled, as he says, builds up the army, And patriot cocks are crowing everywhere, Until the house of Jack with snarls and growls, The fuff, fuff, fuff of cats seems on the eve Of pandemonium. The Germans think The Slavs want Europe, and the Slavs are sure The Germans want it, and it's all for malt. Meantime the Balkan Babel leads to war. The Slavic peoples do not like the rule Of Austro-Hungary, but the latter found No way except to rule the Slavs and rule Southeastern Europe, being crowded out By mastiff Bismarck. And again there's Jack Who made confusion of the Balkan tongues. And so the house awaits events that look As if Jack willed them, anyway a thing That may be put on Jack. It comes at last. All have been armed for malt. A crazy man Has armed himself and shoots a king to be, The Archduke Francis, on the Serbian soil, Then Austria moves on Serbia, Russia moves To succor Serbia, France is pledged to help The Russians, but our dachshund has a bond With Austria and rushes to her aid. Then England must protect the channel, yes, France must be saved--and here you have your war.