Mr. Mandragon, the Millionaire, he wouldn't have wine or wife, He couldn't endure complexity: he lived the Simple Life. He ordered his lunch by megaphone in manly, simple tones, And used all his motors for canvassing voters, and twenty telephones; Besides a dandy little machine, Cunning and neat as ever was seen, With a hundred pulleys and cranks between, Made of metal and kept quite clean, To hoist him out of his healthful bed on every day of his life, And wash him and dress him and shave him and brush him --to live the Simple Life. Mr. Mandragon was most refined and quietly, neatly dressed, Say all the American newspapers that know refinement best; Quiet and neat the hat and hair and the coat quiet and neat, A trouser worn upon either leg, while boots adorn the feet; And not, as any one would expect, A Tiger's Skin all striped and specked, And a Peacock Hat with the tail erect, A scarlet tunic with sunflowers decked, Which might have had a more marked effect, And pleased the pride of a weaker man that yearned for wine or wife; But Fame and the Flagon, for Mr. Mandragon --obscured the Simple Life. Mr. Mandragon, the Millionaire, I am happy to say, is dead; He enjoyed a quiet funeral in a Crematorium shed. And he lies there fluffy and soft and grey and certainly quite refined; When he might have rotted to flowers and fruit with Adam and all mankind, Or been eaten by wolves athirst for blood, Or burnt on a good tall pyre of wood, In a towering flame, as a heathen should, Or even sat with us here at food, Merrily taking twopenny ale and pork with a pocket-knife; But this was luxury not for one that went for the Simple Life. The Song Against Songs The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a weary song and a dreary song, The glory of Mariana's grange had got into great decay, The song of the Raven Never More has never been called a cheery song, And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else but gay. But who will write us a riding song, Or a hunting song or a drinking song, Fit for them that arose and rode When day and the wine were red? But bring me a quart of claret out, And I will write you a clinking song, A song of war and a song of wine And a song to wake the dead. The song of the fury of Fragolette is a florid song and a torrid song, The song of the sorrow of Tara is sung to a harp unstrung, The song of the cheerful Shropshire Lad I consider a perfectly horrid song, And the song of the happy Futurist is a song that can't be sung. But who will write us a riding song Or a fighting song or a drinking song, Fit for the fathers of you and me, That knew how to think and thrive? But the song of Beauty and Art and Love Is simply an utterly stinking song, To double you up and drag you down And damn your soul alive. Me Heart