by RENÉ MACCOLL
Now when I lay me down to sleep, I do not fall to counting sheep, But contemplate with little hope The multiplying isotope.
And when I dream, I dream I dig me Capacious dugouts near the Pygmy, For Toynbee says their tropic lairs May well produce our only heirs.
Recalling what befell the Japs, I’m letting my insurance lapse. Why pay the premiums on my life If it’s curtains also for my wife?
A bid to stay with King Farouk? Some market tips from B. Baruch? One shrugs — one indicates with sorrow The feeling that there’s no tomorrow.