Ah me! how sad it is to think
He could have lived like me—or you!
With practice, and a taste for drink,
Our joys he might have known, he too!
And shared the pleasure we have had
In being gloriously bad!
The Naughty Boy gets much delight
From doing what he should not do;
But, as such conduct isn't Right,
He sometimes suffers for it, too.
Yet, what's a spanking to the fun
Of leaving vital things Undone?
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.
Yes, 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 nought 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!
. . . . .