You make no moan, nor hint at how you're faring,
And here in turn we try to hide our woe,
With taxis mutinous, and Tubes so wearing,
And who can tell where all the matches go?
And all our doors and windows want repairing,
But can we get a man to mend them? No.

The dustman visits not; we can't get castor;
In vain are parlour-maids and plumbers sought,
And human intellect can scarcely master
The time when beer may lawfully be bought,
Or calculate how cash can go much faster,
And if one's butcher's acting as he ought.

Our old indulgences are now not cricket;
Whate'er one does _some_ Minister will cuss;
In Tube and Tram young ladies punch one's ticket,
With whom one can't be cross or querulous;
All things are different, but still we stick it,
And humbly hope we help a little thus.

So, Fellow-sufferers, we give you greeting--
All luck, all laughter and an end of wars!
And just to strengthen you for Fritz's beating,
I'm sending out a parcel from the Stores;
_They mean to stop my annual over-eating,
But it will comfort me to think of yours._

A.P.H.