PATRIOTIC SONG

Press, Volume XCVIII, Issue 28890, 9 May 1959, Page 12

PATRIOTIC SONG

[By

WHIM WHAM]

I look upon my Country, This native Land of mine, I tread its Turf, its Pavements, I neither yearn nor pine For new Scenes to restore me— I, in the Land that bore me, Eat what it puts before me, And even drink its Wine.

What though the Voice of Gnawdie Fall rasping on our ears? The Country needs our Money,

So let us shed no Tears— Let’s look our Best, though seedy, Nor think that Gnawdie’s greedy, He gives it to the Needy— To meet their Tax Arrears! What though the learned Customs Stop Books at every Port, Sifting the truly cultural From the Un-cultural sort? Why should they not be jealous Of their sole Right to tell us What’s GOOD to read—compel us To think the Things we ought? What though the Deeds of Skoglund Call down a Patriot’s Curse? The educational Hand-out

Depletes the public Purse— And the End comes one Day closer, When the University Grocer Has a Shop wherever you go, Sir, And gives short Weight or worse. What though the Bird of Freedom Droop like a Kiwi plucked, And the old political Bilge Pump Choke on the Sludge it sucked? This is the Land that bore me, Although it may deplore me, It cannot well ignore ma: Our Qyarrels may be stormy, My Task I see before me— To snarl, where I instruct!