My Country vast and grand, Sweet Montezuma Land, My Stingareé. Land of the Knife and Gun, Villa and Scorpion; Land of the Evil One I weep for thee! Smallpox and Rattlesnakes Lurk in thy Cactus brakes, And Yellow Jack. Spiders and Centipedes Gloat o'er thy murd'rous deeds: To cure thy crying needs, Call Diaz back. Tarantula and Flies Poison your lands and skies: Behold your graves! Carranza's waving beard By Pancho's Band is feared, And will be till he's sheared Or dyes or shaves. Horned Toads and Vampire Bats, Gilas and Mountain Cats, Where'er you go! Buzzards and Vultures reign Over a million slain; And Mescal is the bane Of Mexico. O, Land of Chili con Carne and Obregon, Let murders cease! Keep Freedom's fires aglow Where La Frijólés grow; Throw up your Sombrero And Keep the Peace! LOVE I Love is the Mecca of our Heart's Desire: We worship at its shrine and feel its thrill; Burning our Hopes upon its Altar Fire Till Passion be consumed, but not until. II Then Love assumes a calmer mood, when spent-- His quiver empty and his bow unstrung-- And peers into the pleasing Past, content To live, unmoved, his memories among. STRONGARM'S WATERLOO _Some_ drive! From tee to green in one: par, three! That's putting proper English on, you see! And, Goodness Golfus! See the ball roll up To easy putting distance from the cup. Who is this man? Professional, no doubt! He'll "card" a thirty-seven going out; And if he gets the "breaks" he'll make, methinks, A new low record for the Piedmont Links. See with what confidence he wends his way The Fairway thru to make his hole out play! The Gallery, expectant, follows thru To see the Champion go down in _two_. Then to the ball he makes his last address, (The ball was peeved at what he said, I guess) And pulls his gooseneck back a foot or so Before he hits the sphere the fateful blow. Alas for human frailty! See it flit Across the green into the sandy pit! The sighing winds, in protest, moaned Beware! While he invoked the Deity in prayer. And then he played his third, but topped the sphere, The Rubber Rogue responding with a leer. A halo hung around the Stranger's head It seemed: but, nay! 'twas brimstone fire instead, For what he said, in type is not displayed Except on fire-proof paper, I'm afraid. Four! Five! Six! But still far from the goal! The Player loses all his self-control And breaks the "goose" in twain: then hark the din, When Caddie trails the ball and _kicks it in_!