The Dove
By Victor James Daley
Within his office, smiling.
Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN,
But all the screws of Birmingham
Were working in his brain.
The heart within his bosom
Was as a millstone hard;
His eye was cold and cruel,
His face was frozen lard.
He had the map of Africa
Upon his table spread:
He took a brush, and with the same
He painted it blood-red.
He heard no moan of widows,
But only the hurrah
Of charging lines and squadrons
And 'Rule Britannia.'
A white dove to his window
With branch of olive sped
He took a ruler in his hand,
And struck the white dove dead.