O ye statesmen debonair,
With the partings in your hair;
Statesmen, ye who do your bit
In the arm-chairs where you sit;
You with top-hats on your head
Even when you lie in bed;
O superbly happy, ye
Traders in Humanity;
Every time you smile, sweet friends,
A moan goes up, a plague descends.
Every time you show your teeth,
A hundred swords desert the sheath.
Every time you pare your nails,
The manhood of a city fails.
Every time you dip your pen,
You slaughter ten platoons of men.
For every glass of port you hold,
Blood is spilt ten thousandfold....
O ye statesmen debonair,
With the partings in your hair;
O ye statesmen pink and white,
Sleep like little lambs to-night.