Ill-Hughesed

“When an editor sits in his chair,” said the Prime Minister, yesterday, “like a squeezed-out sponge, scratching his head and wondering what he could criticise, he would suddenly straighten up and say to his leader-writer, ‘What about Hughes?’ and then I get it.” (Laughter.)

I don't know what to write about,
I'm sick of voicing divers views
I'm sick of searching round about,
And turning papers inside out.
    Pousing, reflecting, torn by doubt
        I'll write of Hughes.

When things are dull—just as today—
And nothing snappy in the news
Helps one to push dull care away—
When I'm dead stumped for things to say
I strive to make this column gay
    By using Hughes.

So here's a cheerful little song—
A brilliant trifle from the brain . . .
And, yet, maybe I'd do him wrong,
Just now he is not going strong,
And time is short but Art is long—
    So I refrain.