Harry Graham
When told that twenty-thousand Japs are drowned in a typhoon,
We feel a trifle shocked, perhaps, but neither faint nor swoon.
'Dear me! How tragic!' we repeat, 'Ah well, Such things must be.'
Our ordinary lunch we eat and make a hearty tea,
Such loss of life (with shame I write) creates no loss of appetite!

When on a Rocky Mountain ranch two hundred souls, all told
Are buried in an avalanche the tidings leave us cold.
'Poor fellows' we remark. 'Poor things' - 'All crushed to little bits'
Then go to 'Bunty Pulls The Strings' Have supper at the Ritz,
And never even think again of land-slides in the State Of Maine.
But when the paper we take in describes how Mr Jones,
Has slipped on a banana-skin and broken sev'ral bones.
'Good Heavens! What a World,' we shout. 'Disasters never cease!
What is the Government about? And where are the Police?'
Distraught by such appalling news all creature comforts we refuse.

Though plagues exterminate the Lapp and famines ravage Spain,
They move us not like some mishap to a suburban train.
Each foreign tale of fire and blood, how trumpery it grows,
Beside a broken collar-stud a smut upon the nose,
For charity (Alas! how true) begins at home - and ends there, too.
The end