Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3827/Wireless
There sits a little demon Above the Adiniralty,To take the news of seamen Seafaring on the sea;So all the folk aboard-ships Five hundred miles awayCan pitch it to their Lordships At any time of day.
The cruisers prowl observant; Their crackling whispers go;The demon says, "Your servant," And lets their Lordships know;A fog's come down off Flanders? A something showed off Wick?The captains and commanders Can speak their Lordships quick.
The demon sits a-waking; Look up above Whitehall—E'en now, mayhap, he's taking The Greatest Word of all;From smiling folk aboard-ships He ticks it off the reel:—"An' may it please your Lordships, A Fleet's put out o' Kiel!"