When young I was a Socialist <br /> Despite my tender years; <br />No blessed chance I ever missed <br /> To slam the profiteers. <br />Yet though a fanatic I was, <br /> And cursed aristocrats, <br />The Party chucked me out because <br /> I sported Spats. <br /> <br />Aye, though on soap boxes I stood, <br /> And spouted in the parks, <br />They grizzled that my foot-wear would <br /> Be disavowed my Marx. <br />It's buttons of a pearly sheen <br /> Bourgois they deemed and thus <br />They told me; 'You must choose between <br /> Your spats and us.' <br /> <br />Alas! I loved my gaitered feet <br /> Of smoothly fitting fawn; <br />They were so snappy and so neat, <br /> A gift from Uncle John <br />Who had a fortune in the Bank <br /> That one day might be mine: <br />'Give up my spats!' said I, 'I thank <br /> You--but resign.' <br /> <br />Today when red or pink I see <br /> In stripy pants of state, <br />I think of how they lost in me <br /> A demon of debate. <br />I muse as leaders strut about <br /> In frock-coats and high hats . . . <br />The bloody party chucked me out <br /> Because of Spats.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spats/
