Wee Moderns.

It is vain to squawk at the Squawkies, air our objections to aeroplanes, or ostracise Oxfords.

The world has always been modern; Jacob was considered slightly futuristic and a bit over the fence when he wore his coat-of-many-colours, and Henry the Eighth was a little before his time. Personally, it is my secret sorrow that I have never worn a beret. Of course you know what a beret is; it is a sort of bedspread for a deadhead, a counterpane to counter brain —a veritable vacuum-screener; but still, envious reader, who is there, here present, who would not amputate his chin-ware, have his face sifted, and throw in his old age pension, to wear a beret? There are few of we moderns who would not be wee moderns.

Make me a child again,
Just for to-night,
Give me a brain again,
Light as a kite,
Singe off my whiskers,
And give me some hair,
Fill up my skull,
With a pint of hot air.
Give me a motor-bike,
Make me a sheik,
Earning a quid and
A quarter a week,
Give me a pillion,
Give me a “Jane,”
Something that's modern,
And not very sane,
Bag me some Oxfords,
An over-size pair,
Give me—oh give me,
A Beret To Wear.