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Spats
When young I was a Socialist
Despite my tender years;
No blessed chance I ever missed
To slam the profiteers.

Yet though a fanatic I was,
And cursed aristocrats,
The Party chucked me out because
I sported Spats.


Aye, though on soap boxes I stood,
And spouted in the parks,
They grizzled that my foot-wear would
Be disavowed my Marx.

It's buttons of a pearly sheen
Bourgois they deemed and thus
They told me; 'You must choose between
Your spats and us.
'

Alas! I loved my gaitered feet
Of smoothly fitting fawn;
They were so snappy and so neat,
A gift from Uncle John
Who had a fortune in the Bank
That one day might be mine:
'Give up my spats!' said I, 'I thank
You--but resign.
'

Today when red or pink I see
In stripy pants of state,
I think of how they lost in me
A demon of debate.

I muse as leaders strut about
In frock-coats and high hats .
.
.

The bloody party chucked me out
Because of Spats.
Written by: Robert William Service

Book: Shattered Sighs