And boys are such pickles in spite of papas!
That the cup of ill-luck is drained to the dregs,
When a man's in his cups and not on his legs!
That meaning should be in that word for a sot,
He's ruined forever—he's going to pot!
So goes the world and its generations,
So go its tribes, and its tribulations;
Crowding together on the stream of time,
It almost destroys the chime of my rhyme,
While they strike, and they grind, and rub and dash,