To the King's Levees and Droring Rooms. My dear Poet Laureate, I charge you to do your best for these suffering people. WRITING IS A NOBLE ART, IT SHOULD MOST CERTAINLY BE RECOGNISED BY THE CROWN. Rub these facts well in, my dear Poet Laureate (You know who to rub 'em into); And while you are about it, There are two persons On whose behalf You might use every legitimate endeavour To rub your hardest-- One of them, my dear Poet Laureate, is YOURSELF And the other is MYSELF. Your own desires in the way of "recognition" Are of course your own affair, Ask for what you like, my dear Poet Laureate, And see that you get it, For me (Let me whisper) I want a pension. TO THE AMERICAN INVADER Dear Sir or Madam (As the case may be),-- Peace hath her victories as well as war And sometimes When I have occasion to travel In this muggy metropolis of ours, I begin to wonder whether I really am in London, Or in New York. On the tops of Atlas 'buses, and all other 'buses, At the dining-tables of hotels at all prices, At all theatres, At all music-halls, At all art galleries, At all "evenings," At all social functions Metropolitan in their nature You, my dear Sir or Madam (As the case may be), Flourish and are to the fore, There are people in the world Who can pick you out at a glance. The American woman, I am told, Wears a certain kind of complexion And a certain kind of blouse; The American man, I am told, Is weedy and anæmic, A cigarette smoker, A confirmed spitter, And a moderate drinker; He has a soft hat and unlimited dollars: It is his dollars, of course, Which are creating all the trouble. They are beginning to circulate And "geta-holt" Wherever honest Britons most do congregate. My tobacco merchant, Who sells me two ounces of the real thing every week, Has just been bought up by an American syndicate; My barber is in the same case; And I feel sure That the woman who brings home "the laundry" Is seriously considering proposals which have been made to her By a syndicate of wealthy American gentlemen. The electric-lighting plant in St. Paul's Cathedral Was, it seems, paid for by an American. Another American is doing something or other With the underground railways, And a third proposes to erect a building Which will contain 6,000 rooms On one of the best sites On the new Holborn-Strand improvement. Also I am using An American roll-top desk, An American typewriter, An American chair, American ink, American pens, American blotting paper, American gum, American paper fasteners, American notions, An American pattern of Ode, And Heaven knows what besides. I am all American. I can whistle the "Star-Spangled Banner," I can, really! Shake! I like you, There are no flies on you. How are Mr. Roosevelt and all at home? Is Pierpont keeping hearty? Do you miss Carnegie--much?