Words

A hitch occurred at the Geneva Disarmament Conference over the definition of the word “aggressor.”

In old days, when the race was young,
And man scarce knew his neighbor;
When tales unwrit and songs unsung
Awaited mankind’s labor;
When men abode in caves and such
Insanitary places,
Words came unwieldy to the tongue—
(At least, so hist’ry traces).

And, in those days, some bloke named “Gah,”
Replete with food and vigor,
Came to his cave-mouth shouting, “Yah!”
At some far distant nigger
Across some primal valley which
Ne’er knew the foot of rover,
Because he felt that primal itch
To “put his ego over.”

The nigger on the other side
Yelled back some term insulting;
They both strode down in manly pride
For victory exulting.
They fought . . . . But which, of that old race—
(Suppose you were assessor)
Was the defendant in the case?
And which was the aggressor?

And so the years go on until
We reach the Knights in Armor,
And some cove, with a fighting will,
Hears sneers about his charmer.
His lance is couched! His foe defends!
And there’s an awful ruction,
Which is defender? . . . All depends
On literal construction.

We talk, we talk. Lord, how we talk!
We point the ancient morals,
And seek old remedies to caulk
The leak of ancient quarrels.
Words! Words! It’s all a world of words,
Until, uncomprehended,
We some day wake, poor human herds,
To find all troubles mended.