The Magician

Some five and sixty pushed their plates away, Sat back, and faced the speaker of the day; A well-known figure, free of guile and trick, Dubbed by our President, "My old friend Nick." He rose, some sheets of paper in his hand— Simple white sheets, I'd have you understand— When, lo! We're seated in an aerial stage, A time-and-space-devouring Handley Page— The magic carpet of the Arabian Nights On which Prince Houssain rode to see the sights.

Back through the centuries, Imperial Rome Sinks slowly supine in the spume and foam Of economic fallacies; and next Below us see poor Central Europe, vext Beyond belief, welter of waste and blood, And like to perish in the self-same flood!

But what is this unfolds beneath our gaze, The pride and wonder of these latter days, A goodly heritage, prodigious, vast, Which, if we wisely profit by the past, Avoid the errors leading to decay, Humbly, yet proudly, pressing on our way— This Commonwealth of Nations, this, our own, In splendid isolation, free, alone— Soon to be self-supporting, self-contained.

The speaker paused, slowly his seat regained, Dropped the last sheet—a simple manoeuvre, That landed us back in the Hotel Vancouver.