THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB
Fair and worthless things that die
Praising their goddess Vanity
Here gather. Like a violin
Many a sweetly-scented Sin
Whispers. Many a bright-wreathed Folly,
Finding its roses turned to holly,
Seeks with Pleasure’s aid to fend
That Boredom which is Folly’s end.
Wherefore the violins make moan.
For these “the visible world” alone
Exists; and “ah that it should pass!”
They cry, and fill a trembling glass.
“Here’s to Beauty!” (surnamed Lust)
They cry; and e’er it falls to dust,
“Love it,” they cry, “and hug it well.”
“To whatsoever heaven or hell
Fate builds for fools, these surely go,”
Thought the moralist watching this tinsel show.
“Yet is it not difficult to know
Who best deserve the name of Fool,
These or those more respectable
Most moral folks I know so well?...
These make of living a foolish sham,
These play a silly blind man’s game,
Chasing bubbles like a fool.
But the others like a sullen mule
Play at nothing at all, and so
Think they’re good because they’re dull—
Where, in the name of sense, will they go?”
Upon which curious reflection
The sad and wondering sage arose,
Paid for his drink and blew his nose,
Brushed the confetti from his clothes,
And shuffled forth in deep dejection.