Little steel nib with the Birmingham name on it,
What in the storms of the world may you do?
Acres of tripe with the Censor's sharp blame on it
Dies in the basket disfigured by blue.
Often we said that the weight of the penhandle,
Gripped in a fist that was firm for the right,
Might be far more than the weapons that men handle
Bloodied and sharp in the front of the fight.
Now it would seem that the swords have the best of it --
Swords and the pencil the Censor can wield;
Truth and free speech and fine song and the rest of it
All to the secrecy needful must yield.
One thing alone is still left for the pen to do --
This is where ink gets the run of the deck --
Pens to the front! There is work here for men to do,
Signing the enemy's doom on the cheque.
First published in The Bulletin, 16 March 1916
