National Prestige

All that I ask is an island
   Set in delectable seas,
A mere speck of earth to call my land.
   Remote from all human unease
Uncultured -- but suitably mated
   I'd live as once Adam began,
Untrammelled, aloof, isolated;
   For I'm sick of the story of Man.

All that I ask is an island --
   A very small atoll indeed.
With an acre of arable dry land
   To grow me the food that I need.
Then I'd sit in the sunlight contented,
   With never a whisper of news
Of "National" leaders demented,
   Or warring economists' views.

All that I ask is an island
   Far out on the desolate deep
A drowsy, a drugged lullaby land
   Of languor and leisure and sleep.
From Nazi and Comminust keeping,
   From fiery Facisti aloof;
While Poland went corridor creeping
   And Hitler was hitting the roof.

All that I ask is an island ....
   If I got it, it's twenty to one,
With a flag, and a song about "My Land,"
   I'd go to it packing a gun.
Then, aflame with the prevalent fever,
   Fed-up with sweet peace and its irks,
I would make a bee-line for Geneva
   And throw a new rench in the works.