Poem by Owen Seaman

T.M.G

Farewell, my CONSTANTINE! A guardian navy
  Facilitates your exit on the blue;
  For Greece has been this long while in the gravy
  And he that put her there was plainly you;
  "TINO MUST GO!" was writ for all to see,
  Or, briefly, "T.M.G."

  Whither, dear Sir, do you propose to sally?
  To Switzerland's recuperative air,
  To sip condensed milk in a private chalet
  Or pluck the lissom chamois from his lair,
  Or on the summit of a neutral Alp
  Recline your crownless scalp?

  Or did you ask from him you love so dearly
  A royal haven fenced from rude alarms,
  Even though WILLIAM should reserve you merely
  A bedroom at "The Hohenzollern Arms,"
  Having for poor relations on the loose
  No sort of further use?

  Beware! I gather he might clasp his TINO
  Only too warmly to his heaving chest,
  Saying, "O how reward such merits? _We_ know!
  Thou shalt command an Army in the West!
  Yes, thou shalt bear upon the British Front
  The pick of all the brunt."

  Frankly, if I were you, I wouldn't chance it.
  Fighting has never really been your forte;
  Witness Larissa, and your rapid transit,
  Chivied by slow foot-sloggers of the Porte;
  Far better make for Denmark o'er the foam;
  There is no place like home.

  Try some ancestral palace, well-appointed;
  For choice the one where _Hamlet_ nursed his spite,
  Who found the times had grown a bit disjointed
  And he was not the man to put 'em right;
  And there consult on that enchanted shore
  The ghosts of Elsinore.

1. Dies Irae
2. To the Memory of Field-Marshall Earl Roberts
3. To Mr. William Watson
4. Fashions for Men
5. Yet

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