Within His Office, Smiling. Sat Joseph Chamberlain, But All The Screws Of Birmingham Were Working In His Brain. The Heart Within His Bosom Was As A Millstone Hard; His Eye Was Cold And Cruel, His Face Was Frozen Lard. He Had The Map Of Africa Upon His Table Spread: He Took A Brush, And With The Same He Painted It Blood-Red. He Heard No Moan Of Widows, But Only The Hurrah Of Charging Lines And Squadrons And 'Rule Britannia.' A White Dove To His Window With Branch Of Olive Sped He Took A Ruler In His Hand, And Struck The White Dove Dead.