And talked to me about the Moon, Of Venus, Saturn, Mars, Till I was rated, very soon, Authority on Stars. A graduate, I searched the skies For orbs unknown before, Determined that I'd specialize In Astronomic lore: But how to buy a telescope And all the charts required? An _attick_ was my only hope Of all the things desired: And so I compromised and bought Binoculars and case, And ev'ry night the Stars I sought At Daly's Burlesque Place. The one, bright, meteoric Flame In all that stellar group, Soon _fell for me_; then took my name And quit the Burlesque Troupe. But I'm eclipsed! the Satellite That twinkles in the crib, Keeps Mother _pinning_, day and night, A didy or a bib. THE LOGOTHETE "Beware the dog!" Beware the Logothete! The Octoped with elephantine feet: (I mean by this--with the _big understanding_; The Byzantine Pup of Theodore's branding.) A thousand years chained to Hellespont's brink, He never once whimpered or lapped up a drink. Hydrophobia? No! just aphasia, 'Cause he couldn't cross over to Asia. The old Logothete is the Watch Dog of State: He feeds upon figures (he'll cipher an eight!) And starts ev'ry meal with a twelve or sixteen, Then multiplies units to munch on between. Voracity thus as an integer stands For his diurnal gorge on multiplicands. Numerical strength makes the Logothete thrive, And fractions he dotes on--just eats 'em alive! He lashes his tail by Marmora's flood, But eats from the hand of Sultan Ahmud; A collar of gold, set with aquamarines, Makes him the envy of Justin's near-queens; His Kennel-Kiosque (the hyphen's germane!) Rivals the harems of Constantine's reign. Innocuous? No! nor yet desuetude, For he daily absorbs whole columns of food. His teeth are as sharp as the Damaskeene blade That severed the chains on the Macedon maid; And as keen as the knife avenging the dame Who was sold to the Sheik in Mesopotame. But the point that I make--no whimper or yelp Had ever been voiced by this Logothete whelp Until Archæologists, searching the grounds, Unearthed dogmatisms and bitumen sounds Of the highest known pitch, resembling a whine Or unrav'ling snarls of the Octopedine. And thus they've exploded the silence complete Tradition ascribes to the old Logothete[1]-- And so, in unleashing this Byzantine Pup, They merit grave censure for _digging things up_. [1] From _Logos_ (word) and _Thete_ (Theodore)--The word of Theodore. THE PRICE OF PEACE There's music in the Eagle's shriek; There's ditto in the Lion's roar, But discord marks the Bolshevik Because the Bear doth growl no more.