'Neath beech-tree and 'neath cedar,
In rings of moonlit green....
What bilge, you say, good reader?
My very dear old bean,
Think of the state of Prices,
Think of the slump in Trade,
Turn to the Paris Crisis,
Ponder the cost of ices
And buns and gingerade.

New War-loans shriek for money;
All work is at an end;
It seems extremely funny
There's any cash to spend;
Yet still the tide of laces,
The foam of fluff and silk
Comes round in cardboard cases
To lots of people's places
As punctual as the milk.

While, sworn to get revenge in,
And waiting at the door,
That grim three-handed engine
Prepares to strike once more,
Who built these gowns we mutely
Admire on lawn and lea?
Who bought them (think acutely),
With England absolutely
As broke as she can be?