Another "Scrap of Paper"

Wilhelm, I do not know your whereabouts. The gods elude us. When we would detect your Earthly address, 'tis veiled in misty doubts Of devious conjecture.

At Nancy, in a moist trench, I am told That you performed an unrehearsed lustration; That there you linger, having caught a cold, Followed by inflammation.

Others assert that your asbestos hut, Conveyed (with you inside) to Polish regions, Promises to afford a likely butt To Russia's wingéd legions.

But, whether this or that (or both) be true, Or merely tales of which we have the air full, In any case I say, "O Wilhelm, do, Do, if you can, be careful!"

For if, by evil chance, upon your head, Your precious head, some impious shell alighted, I should regard my dearest hopes as dead, My occupation blighted.

I want to save you for another scene, Having perused a certain Manifesto That stimulates an itching, very keen, In every Briton's best toe—

An Order issued to your Army's flower, Giving instructions most precise and stringent For the immediate wiping out of our "Contemptible" contingent.

Well, that's a reason why I'd see you spared; So take no risks, but rather heed my warning, Because I have a little plan prepared For Potsdam, one fine morning.

I see you, ringed about with conquering foes— See you, in penitential robe (with taper), Invited to assume a bending pose And eat that scrap of paper!