This man is a GM in one reputable British Company

Who is used to be called “a big boss” and who lives

In Shanghai for year in and year out and rides

A three miles distance from his hotel to his office

Every morning and who believes himself desired

At his secretary's tea as first thing to start off his day.

He tells Mrs. Li, his local secretary, so at tea,

That a limo in London is not a luxury but a necessity.

Yes, he has to have the car. His car is not just a car,

It is a moving covered corridor that leads from his hotel

To his office and protects him from domestic humanity.

He will not leave his car and his civilization so far.

That three-mile ride of an enclosed heart and mind

In an enclosed glass and metal case to his office

And his club he takes every day of his 25-year staying

In Shanghai, although he does not mention this fact

When he goes home to England and signs himself

"An old resident 25-years in Shanghai"

In his correspondence to the London Times

That of itself reads very impressively. Meantime,

That 3-mile radius has seldom been exceeded,

Except when he goes to the other part of the country,

But staying in Shanghai, he has never been invited

To Chinese homes and has sedulously avoided

The dogs-and-snakes Chinese restaurants,

And has never read a single line of any central

Or domestic newspapers. Instead, he prefers to go

To the longest bar in the world of an evening,

Sip his cocktail and pick up and imbibe

And exchange bits of his friends and info suppliers,

Gossip and tales on the Eastern Coast handed down

From even passers-through and business persons,

And every time he is happy to find out that Shanghai

Is already turned to be tougher to live than that

In New York and London taken one with another,

And generally behaves as he would in England.

He feels happy when he learns that the Chinese

Are beginning to observe Christmas and make

A grandiose global progress and feels amazed

When he is not understood in English, despite accent;

He uses to walk as though the whole lot of them

Did not exist for him, and does not say "sorry”

Even in English when he steps on a passer-by's toes.

He has not even learned the Chinese equivalents

Of "you’re welcome" and "please” and “thank you"—

The minimum moral obligations of a passing tourist,

And complains of anti-foreignism and despairs

Because even the pillaging of the Gu-gong Palace

In Beijing, after the Boxer Uprising a hundred

And odd years ago, has not taught the Chinese a lesson.

Such is his imaginary authority on this country.

Oh, for a common bond of humanity!

All this can be understandable, and it is quite natural,

And should not be mentioned here were it not

For the fact that it bears closely on the formation

Of opinions on China as the nub of the universe,

The literal translation of which is “Central Kingdom.”

One needs only to think of the language difficulties

And of the almost impossible learning of their scripts,

Of the actual political, economical, intellectual,

And ethnographical chaos in present-day China,

And of the vast differences in customs between

The Sino-Chinese and Sino-Western partnership.

This always busy gentleman at his advanced age

May have no aristocratic blood in his veins

Nor oil portraits of grand ancestors in his office,

But he can always circumvent that by going

Further back in history and discovering that

His forefathers all had the right blood in them,

And that sets his mind at peace and relieves him

Of all anxiety to study things from the height

Of his high-rise facilities, but he is uncomfortable

Every time his business takes him across China.

It is his humanity that cannot stand the sight

Of human misery and poverty, as understood

In his own terms. He cannot stand being pulled

By a human sedan-chair cyclist. . .

The plea here is essentially for a better understanding

On a higher level of wisdom and intelligence.

It is difficult to deny an old hand’s outstanding part

Termed “zhongguo-tong” or an expert on China—

One younger fellow countryman among his friends

Who has got the right to write books and articles

Of this tremendous and so sophisticated country

And its age-old culture simply because he can read

The Chinese newspapers and the general writings.

Such books and articles, however, are remained

On the level of the gossip along the world's longest bar

He used to lean his elbows on with the other “lao-wai.”

As an expert on China, he is a man with vivid nature

And clear head who has learnt to a nicety all polite arts

And polished manners of conduct and tips on etiquette

In the multinational environment. Seeing in the south,

He drives back to the north; roaming in the east,

He pursues off to the west. Always drifting about

Like a floating duckweed, he never has a rest,

Like a fleabane in the winds. If you ask me:

“What sort of man he is?” I would tell you

That his formal name is BA, business agent,

While his nickname is WH, workhorse, or WL,

Wolf legs, as he is like a wolf depended on his legs

For a living. He has his strong personality so that

The reader can easily picture him mediately

In one’s fertile imagination. But let’s make no mistake

About him. He may be a son of a pilot or a captain

Or a secretary in the consular service or he may be

An offspring of a merchant to whom many countries

Is just a marketplace for selling all sorts of sea food,

Peltry-ware and exotic fruits, like a mango or kiwi.

He’s well-versed and erudite; in fact, he might be

A brilliant journalist, with one eye to a political advice

And the other to high royalties. He is well informed

Within his limits, the limits of a man who can talk

To people and who depends on his many friends

And not less numerable but payable suppliers of data.

For maintaining this, he keeps on with his adventures

And he plays golf, and his girl-adventures and golf

Helps to keep him fit and always be in the picture.

He drinks Lipton's tea and a good Scotch and reads

The London Times and the Guardian and his spirit

Revolts against the morning reports of kidnapping

And recurrent wars and crisis and inflation that still

Cannot spoil his breakfast for him. He is well shaved

And dresses more neatly than most of his partners,

Colleagues and many associates, and his boots

Are always better shined than they would parade

In a show-window, although this is no credit to him,

But for the shoeshine machines in the hotels

He usually checks in. He broadly surveys the waves

Of this ruling race to be when, filling an order

Of his clientele, he goes on cross-country for hunting:

The jade-fretwork trading and for the rice paper

Brand named ‘xuan-zhi’ bargaining, and for the silk

And handicraft batik buying up over farmlands

And the mulberry fields throughout the South China,

So, when he is out for his trade and business hunting

He should be armed in full with his sincere and spirit

Of enterprise. Of course, he should know exactly

What he is talking about, otherwise, he would not

Be accepted by the local partners and illicit dealers

As an integral part of the situational surroundings.

Yes, there are some beautiful examples—the people

Who are able to see the meaning in a type of life

So different from one's own, but for one such a man

There are thousands and thousands of the lesser guys

Whose lives are spent between their offices and clubs

Where they are surrounded by their friends as equals

And by the local servants as inferiors: waitress, singers,

Dancers and suchlike. Except for the service, such guys

See nothing else but their countrymen and other “lao-wai”

Or foreigners from whom every night they hear

All the same complaints about domestic dishonesty

And stupidity, interspersed by stories and tales

Of the day's work, and by discussions on soccer,

Which is the one thing that saves their pride and joy.

This is the only alternative, I am afraid, which is left

To abuse of the Chinese today with their still lower level

Of the soccer league playing, but, if this topic is going

To be relevant tomorrow, who can know for certain? . .