A Day In Salonique

There are many famous highways, Many famous streets in history: Watling Street and Piccadilly, Sidney Street and Champs-Elysée, And the Appian Way and Wall Street, But the Lembet Road will ever Take a place in fame beside them, While a single British soldier Lives to tell of Salonica. Mud and slush and bumps in winter, Bumps and dust and flies in summer. Still, it’s filled out since we found it, Since we got to work upon it, As a skinny baby fills out After being fed on Benger’s.

There it was that Tiadatha Learnt the gentle art of wangling Lifts in cars and motor lorries Down to Piccadilly Circus, In the days before the Bulgar Strolled into the Struma Valley.

He would spend the morning shopping, Buying sundry brands of whisky (Mostly made by local effort) At the most prodigious prices; In his hob-nailed boots he slithered Up and down Rue Venizelos, Buying mullet by the oke, Buying tangerines and chestnuts. Shopkeepers would see him coming, Cry with glee, “Here’s Tiadatha, Plenty money, Tiadatha.”

After lunch at the Olympus (Prices higher than the mountain), Off he sped to Baths of Botton, Tasted once again the pleasures Of a bath you can lie down in. Though the soap was green and hardy, Though the towels weren’t all they might be, Even though the place was dirty, It was better than a bucket. Good and hot he made the water, Lay and splashed for half-an-hour, Whistling snatches of a rag-time.

Then of course he tea’d at Floca’s Cosmopolitan as Shepheard’s, Ever full to overflowing. In those days there came to Floca’s Officers of many armies, Officers of many navies, Mufti-wallahs of all nations. Came the Greeks (with swords beside them), Gold and scarlet as a sunset, Came the Italians with their grey cloaks, French with caps like skies in summer, Came the Serbs and came the Russians, Came the English, Jocks and Irish, Admirals, snotties and Commanders, Colonels, Generals and Captains, And a few bold bad Lieutenants Poodle-faking with some sisters. Here they met and fed together, Drank their mastic, tea or absinthe, Talked their own peculiar language, Twenty tongues and yet one language: When they wanted their addition, Wanted their perspiring waiter, They just clapped their hands together, Loudly clapped their hands together, Two or three or even four times. And in good time came the waiter, Dodging round the crowded tables, As a cycling newsboy dodges In and out of London traffic, Added tip into the total, Just for fear they should forget it.

After tea a bit more shopping, And perhaps a Picture Palace (Fifteen suicides and murders In the space of half-an-hour). Then he dined at Bastasini’s, Dined at the expensive Roma, With his very best pal Percy; Drank some pretty nasty bubbly, Sat and watched the other diners Wrestling with their macaroni, Watched a livery Greek major (More and more and more impatient For the omelette he had ordered) Break a plate upon the table, Dash one on the floor in pieces, Then another and another, Till the room was in an uproar, Till he’d got the whole staff round him. “Stout old heart,” cheered Tiadatha, “Go it, Steve,” cheered Tiadatha, “That’s the only way to do it If you’re really in a hurry.”

After dinner off they sallied To the Odéon or Tour Blanche (Where you never paid but pushed past), Crowded in the nearest stage-box, Or if it was locked climbed over.

Had you asked my Tiadatha If the show was very thrilling, If the lovely ladies sang him Haunting songs of joy and sadness, He’d have told you in a minute That he hadn’t time to notice. He was always much too busy Shouting “Un, deux, trois” with Frenchmen, Drinking lager beer with Serbians, Swapping caps with ice-cream merchants, Helping several rowdy Russkis To lasso the band conductor, Having special little Ententes With a boxful of the Navy; Much too busy ragging Bertha, Andrée, Denisette or Dolly, Much too busy dodging Zizi, When she clamoured “Champagne cider.” And when A.P.M.s came prowling, He would disappear sedately With a beer mug in one pocket, And a tin tray in the other, Finish up a noisy evening With a game of “Ring-a-roses,” Then jolt campwards in a gharry To valise and well-earned slumber.

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Do not fear my Tiadatha Gently sliding to Avernus, Losing all the pleasant manners Taught him by his lady mother, Do not fear one day to find him Clapping hands at Rumpelmeyer’s For another chocolate éclair, Breaking plates and things at Prince’s When his lunch is long in coming, Looting beer mugs at the Palace Or lassoing the conductor— He must do as Salonique does, For there’s nothing else to do there.

Some there are find Salonica Dirty, dull and evil-smelling. Bored to tears, they sometimes ask you What on earth there is to do there. But I make reply and tell them Salonica’s what you make it. London can be just as boring As a dug-out in the trenches, Or a dug-out in the trenches Can be merrier than Murray’s— If you’ve got the right coves in it, Got a little drop of whisky, Other climes and other morals: When you go to Salonica, Be an idiot for an evening, Make a noise with Tiadatha, Drink your beer and pinch the glasses, Raid the band and rag the fairies, Dance a fox-trot with a Frenchman, Get a little mild amusement Even out of Salonica.