He built a tomb for his dear uncle then,
And epitaphed him “grand old man,”
Though in his life he had ne’er thought of him
And liked him better dead than—
Alive. So then he called his friends around,—
Patrons of wine and song and ease;
Mild drinks did make him thirst for stronger gins,
And small jags grew protracted sprees.
He squandered thousands on the race course;
In dice he lost at every throw;