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! XXVII--PROVERBS XXIII, 29 To Oliver Herford From many a classic scroll and tome In golden texts the warnings shine: “If you must drink, get soused at home! Will you get pickled? Then use brine!” Each generation gets a sign, But each one needs another prod From scriptures human or divine-- The Wastrel always drops his Wad! Sleek Athens from the Attic loam With ill intention coaxed the vine-- Arcadian Simps admired the foam While hair-oiled City Gents malign Dropped philters in the neatherd's stein-- Soon Corydon upon the sod Lay coinless with a cloven chine-- The Wastrel always drops his Wad!