Classic Poem

I scratch the Enemy's back, do overtime,
And he with no less vigour scratches mine.
I call him Friend and he calls back at me
‘Friend’. He is a gentle Enemy!
(These lonely compliments no animus
Can cause, this gentle fooling between us.)
If so the man we all were like this one
No man would need to carry a shot-gun!
A motley, of thrasonical intent,
He affects, to stage his modest argument.—
If names could bark then I think Woffington
Would bark at us. But it is dead and gone,
And only fleshless eardrums now can smash.
A bottle-companion, almost a Captain Flash
Or possible Copper Captain, or Bobadil,
Since with her voice a big house she could fill
As strident as a mercenary troop—
That's her all right, that's her uncanny whoop.
Enemy can speak softly as she could speak
With a man's roar. His bark is almost meek.
You bet your sweet life that no Beefsteak Club
Would admit Enemy to lunch or sup,
Alcoholic prophylaxis notwithstanding.
He is far too gentle for that boisterous banding.
Alarming monuments we must whitewash,
All thinking men, to guy the popular bosh.

If man alive you're so the chap to care,
To arms! while yet the brave deserve the fair.
If so the man you are commissionaire,
Go back, hang up your medals on the stair,
To glimpse, at coming in, at going out,
If so the man you are with whiskered pout,
Or ambushed eyes of light sky-blue of course,
Expression a little quizzing, a little cross;
A man to be trusted with no matter what,
A sort of walking safe-deposit. Dot
And carry one, with a few simple arts—
If so a man of these resplendent parts,
A sodden lump of ‘independent’ meat,
Organic as a street-lamp, hard to beat
At doing nothing, a great man for your ‘rights’,
Who on a heavy ration ‘doggedly’ fights,
Observing all the rules of ‘clean’ warfare,
A well-paid and protesting sleepy-pear,
And who, for the King's shilling or the Queen's,
A well-groomed, costly watchdog from his teens
To sixties proves, if so the man you be,
Never so much as touched with phantasy—
A servant-man for ever and a day,
But working little for a great deal of pay—
If so the man you are, your leaders gone,
Can you survive into an age of iron?
In this political cockpit who can you face?
Yours must become a very lowly place.
Against the grain, we henceforth must discount
The sleepy people petted and ‘all-found’.
Unless, unless, a class of leaders comes,
To move it from its latter-day doldrums.