Father Wilhelm

“You are old, Father Wilhelm,” the Crown Prince said,
“And the hair’s growing thin on your pate;
Do you think you are perfectly right in your head—
The way you’ve been acting of late?”

“In my youth,” Father Wilhelm replied to his son,
“I hated my honour to stain
But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”

“You are old,” said the Prince, “and you’re getting quite bent,
And rheumatic, yet only just now,
You turned a back somersault into your tent—
Pray why did you do it, and how?”

“In my youth,” Kaiser Wilhelm replied to the Prince,
“I kept all my muscles in training;
And I’ve practised one thing that I learned, ever since—
And that’s to go in when it’s raining.”

“You are old,” said the Prince, “and your head is too light
For anything stronger than water;
Yet you talk without ceasing from morning till night;
Do you think, at your age, that you oughter?”

“In my youth,” said the Kaiser, “I lived upon raw
Spanish onions, I ate with my knife;
And the strength that those onions gave to my jaw
Has lasted the rest of my life.”

“You are old,” said the Kronprins, “and one would suppose,
You would be just a little more humble;
Yet you balance your crown on the end of your nose.
Aren’t you frightened some day it will tumble?”

“Your questions, my boy, are getting too free,”
The Kaiser with anger protested—
“Your impudence borders on Lésé Majesté;
Be off, or I’ll have you arrested.”