He lived—as I was saying, when
You interrupted, impolitely—
Not loosely, like his fellow-men,
But, vicê versâ, rather tightly;
And drank his share, so runs the story,
And other people's, con amore.
A great Astronomer, no doubt,
He often found some Constellation
Which others could not see without
Profuse internal irrigation;
And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,
Until his colleagues rang for ice.
Omar, who owned a length of throat
As dry as the proverbial "drummer,"
And quite believed that (let me quote)
"One swallow does not make a summer,"
Supplied a model to society
Of frank, persistent insobriety.
* * * * *
Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,
Until, when indisposed for more,
Your puzzled, inadhesive feet
Elude the smooth revolving floor.
What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?
To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!
Oblivion in the bottle win,
Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,
And seek the Open Port within
Some dignified Inebriates' Home;
Assuming there, with kingly air,
A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!
A book of verse (my own, for choice),
A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,
A lady with a tuneful voice,
Beside me in some dim pagoda!
A cellar—if I had the key,—
Would be a Paradise to me!
In cosy seat, with lots to eat,
And bottles of Lafitte to fracture
(And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet
Recalls the mode of manufacture)—
I contemplate, at easy distance,
The troublous problems of existence.
For even if it could be mine
To change Creation's partial scheme,
To mould it to a fresh design,
More nearly that of which I dream,
Most probably, my weak endeavour
Would make more mess of it than ever!
So let us stock our cellar shelves
With balm to lubricate the throttle;
For "Heav'n helps those who help themselves,"
So help yourself, and pass the bottle!
. . . . . .
What! Would you quarrel with my moral?
(Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel!)