Madame Eulalie’s Rare Plums

[M Jacques Lebaudy, “Emperor of the Sahara”, arrived in London on Monday for the purpose of purchasing agricultural implements for his colonists, and is staying at the Savoy Hotel, inaccessible to interviewers and tradesmen. “His Majesty” has been out on several occasions, but always contrives to escape observation.]

The lot of an emperor is one
Your comfort-loving man should shun;
It’s wholly free from skittles, beer,
And other things designed to cheer.
There are worries small, and worries great,
Private worries and worries of state.
But the one that most distresses me
Is the terrible lack of privacy.
It rather tries my temper, for
I’m such a retiring Emperor.

In the Savoy I sit all day
Wishing people would go away;
Cross, disgusted, wrapped in gloom,
I daren’t go out of my sitting-room.
Every minute fresh callers call.
There are men on the stairs and men in the hall,
And I go to the door, and I turn the key,
For everyone of them’s after me.
Which is exasperating for
A rather retiring Emperor.

There are strenuous journalistic crews,
Begging daily for interviews;
There arc camera fiends in tens and scores,
Philanthropists and other bores,
Men who are anxious to sell me hats,
Waistcoats, boots, umbrellas, and spats,
Men who simply yearn to do
Just whatever I want them to.
Which causes me annoyance, for
I’m such a retiring Emperor.

Of course “the compliment implied
Inflates me with legitimate pride”,
But often I feel, as my door I bar,
That they carry their compliments much too far.
That sort of thing becomes a bore
To a really retiring Emperor.