If he's notoriously bad, But for a day should change his ways, His parents will be all so glad, They'll shower him with gifts and praise! (It pays a connoisseur in crimes To be a perfect saint at times.)
Of course there always lies the chance That he is charged with being ill, And all his innocent romance Is ruined by a rhubarb pill. (Alas! 'Tis not alone the Good That are so much misunderstood.)
But, as a rule, when he behaves (Evincing no malarial signs), His friends are all his faithful slaves, Until he once again declines With easy conscience, more or less, To undiluted wickedness.
The Wicked flourish like the bay, At Cards or Love they always win, Good Fortune dogs their steps all day, They fatten while the Good grow thin. The Righteous Man has much to bear; The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!
For, though he be the greatest sham, Luck favours him his whole life through; At "Bridge" he always makes a Slam After declaring "Sans atout"; With ev'ry deal his fate has planned A hundred Aces in his hand.
And it is always just the same; He somehow manages to win, By mere good fortune, any game That he may be competing in. At Golf no bunker breaks his club, For him the green provides no "rub."
At Billiards, too, he flukes away (With quite unnecessary "side"); No matter what he tries to play, For him the pockets open wide; He never finds both balls in baulk, Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.
He swears; he very likely bets; He even wears a flaming necktie; Inhales Egyptian cigarettes And has a "Mens Inconscia Recti"; Yet, spite of all, one must confess That naught succeeds like his excess.
There's no occasion to be Just, No need for motives that are fine, To be Director of a Trust, Or Manager of a Combine; Your corner is a public curse, Perhaps; but it will fill your purse.
Then stride across the Public's bones, Crush all opponents under you, Until you "rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves"; and, when you do, The widow's and the orphan's tears Shall comfort your declining years!