A Food War

Some folk believe that wars commence From greed of gain or self-defence; But Austrian sages have divined Incitements of a different kind.

The Servian Army (so 'tis said) Has run completely out of bread, And every day the hungry souls Fight Austria for Vienna rolls.

The Austrian battles with the Tsar Because he dotes on caviare, And must that monarch's realm invade Because he likes it freshly made.

The Russians cannot do without The soul-sustaining sauerkraut, And march their armies to the West Because Berliners make the best.

The German confidently thinks That absinthe is the prince of drinks, And therefore must attack the land That keeps the most seductive brand.

The Frenchman, tired of his ragoûts, Covets the meat that Teutons use, And charges like an avalanche For German sausage, not revanche.

The Briton, vexed by rules austere, Has heard the fame of German beer, And nought his onward march can stop While Munich holds a single drop.

The bold Italian stands prepared With rifle loaded, sabre bared, And to a questioning world replies, "Who touches my spaghetti, dies!"