Than any I know.

The faults of ephemeral fiction,
Exotic, erotic or smart,
The vice of delirious diction,
The latest excesses of Art--
You flay in felicitous fashion,
With dexterous choice of your tools,
A scourge for unsavoury passion,
A hammer for fools.

And yet, though so freakish and dashing,
You are not the slave of your fun,
For there's nobody better at lashing
The crimes and the cant of the Hun;
Anyhow, I'd be proud as a peacock
To have it inscribed on my tomb:
"He followed the footsteps of LEACOCK
In banishing gloom."

* * * * *

From an Indian clerk's letter to his employer:--

"I am glad that the War is progressing very favourably for the
Allies. We long for the day when, according to Lord Curzon's
saying, 'The Bengal Lancers will petrol the streets of Berlin.'"

Quite the right spirit.