XXV—AFTER SEVERAL HIGHBALLS
To Clive Weed
I saw three roses on the wall,
Three red, red roses on the wall,
Repeated in a pattern:
The first, I Cleopatra call,
The second one's named Sadie Hall,
The third one is a slattern.
Three flowers, all curlycues and swirls,
Each blare-mouthed like a trumpet;
One used to fish for swine with pearls,
The second was the best of girls,
The third one was a strumpet.
Three red-mouthed roses on the wall
As bright and hot as blood;
The first one caused an empire fall,
The second was just Sadie Hall,
The third died in the mud.
XXVI—CHANT ROYAL OF THE DEJECTED DIPSOMANIAC
To Hal Steed
Some fools keep ringing the dumb waiter bell
Just as I finish killing Uncle Ned;
I wonder if they could have heard him yell?
A moment since I cursed at them and said:
“This is a pretty time to bring the ice!”
—Old Uncle Ned! Two times of late, or thrice,
I've thought of prodding him with something keen,
But always Fate has seemed to intervene;
Last night, for instance, I was in the mood,
But I was far too drunken yestere'en——-
My way of life can end in nothing good!
At Mrs. Dumple's, last week, when I fell
And spoiled her dinner party I was led
Out to a cab; they saw I was not well
And took me home and tucked me into bed.
I should quit mingling hashish with my rice!
I should give over singing “Three Blind Mice”
At funerals! Why will I make a scene?
Why should I feed my cousins Paris Green?
I am increasingly misunderstood:
When I am tactless, people think 'tis spleen.
My way of life can end in nothing good.
Why should one cry that he is William Tell,
Then flip a pippin from his hostess' head
That none but he can see? Why should one dwell
Upon the failings of the newly wed
At wedding breakfasts? Can I not be Nice?
I am so silly and so full of vice!
Such prestidigitator tricks, I ween,
As finding false teeth in a soup tureen
Are not real humour; they are crass and crude,
And cast suspicion on the host's cuisine:
My way of life can end in nothing good.
My wife and her best friend, a social swell,
Zoo-ward I lured to see the cobras fed;—
“We can't get home,” I giggled, “for the El
Is broken, Sarah—let's elope, instead!”
I spoke of all she'd have to sacrifice,
And she seemed yielding to me, once or twice,
Until my wife broke in and said: “Eugene,
Your finger nails are seldom really clean;—
I'd loose poor Sarah's hand, Eugene, I would!”
How weak and stupid I have always been!
My way of life can end in nothing good.
I drink and doze and wake and think of hell,
My eyes are blear from all the tears I shed:
I'm pitiably bald: I'm but a shell!
I sobbed to-day, “I wish that I were dead!”
I wish I could quit drugs and drink and dice.
I wish I had not talked of chicken lice
The Sunday that we entertained the Dean,
Nor shouted to his wife that paraffin
Would make her thin beard grow, nor played the
food
Was pennies and her face a slot machine:
My way of life can end in nothing good.
—That bell again: A voice: “Is your name Bryce?
These goods is C. O. D. Send down the price!”
“Bryce lives,” I yell, “at Number Seventeen!”
Bryce doesn't live there, but I feel so mean
I laugh and lie; my tone is harsh and rude.
—Uncle is gone! I'm phthisical and lean—
My way of life can end in nothing good!