Turkey

The Sultan of the Purple East Is quite a cynic, in his way, And really doesn't mind the least His nickname of 'Abdul the ----' (Nay! I might perhaps come in for blame If I divulged this monarch's name.)

The Turk is such a kindly man, But his ideas of sport are crude; He to the poor Armenian Is not intentionally rude, But still it is his heartless habit To treat him as we treat the rabbit.

If he wants bracing up a bit, His pleasing little custom is To take a hatchet and commit A series of atrocities. I should not fancy, after dark, To meet him, say, in Regent's Park.

A deeply married man is he, 'Early and often' is his rule; He practises polygamy Directly after leaving school, And so arranges that his wives Live happy but secluded lives.

If they attend a public place, They have to do so in disguise, And so conceal one-half their face That nothing but a pair of eyes Suggests the hidden charm that lurks Beneath the veils of lady Turks.

Then too in Turkey all the men Smoke water-pipes and cross their legs; They watch their harem as a hen That guards her first attempt at eggs. (If you don't know what harems are, Just run and ask your dear papa.)