The Cradle-Smashers.
In a hundred thousand cradles,
In a multitude of prams,
Hostile Hectors, Wailing Waldos,
Weeping Willies, Sobbing Sams,
Chew their nighties while they ponder.
On the Possibility,
Of their ultimate inclusion,
In the team for “fifty-three,”
While their mothers (how prophetic Of the future), cry “Alack,
How the Dickens does he do it,
I declare the child's ALL BLACK.”