IX
THE COLONEL
Observe him, in the best armchair,
At ev'ry "Service" Club reclining!
How brightly through its close-cropped hair!
His polished skull is shining!
His form, inert and comatose,
Suggests a stertorous repose.
What strains are these that echo clear?
What music on our ears is falling?
Through his Æolian nose we hear
The distant East a-calling.
(A good example here is found
Of slumber that is truly "sound.")
He dreams of India's coral strand,
Where, camping by the Jimjam River,
He sacrificed his figure and
The best part of his liver,
And, in some fever-stricken hole,
Mislaid his pow'rs of self-control.
Blow lightly on his head, and note
Its surface change from chrome to hectic;
Examine that pneumatic throat,
That visage apoplectic.
His colour-scheme is of the type
That plums affect when over-ripe.
With rising gorge he stands erect,
Awakened by your indiscretion,
Becoming slowly Dunlop-necked—
(To coin a new expression);
Where stud and collar form a juncture,
You contemplate immediate puncture.
His head, like some inverted cup,
Ascends, a Phoenix, from its ashes;
His eyebrows rise and beckon up
His "porterhouse" moustaches;[A]
And you acknowledge, as you flinch,
That he's a Colonel—ev'ry inch!