Versos English Don Marquis V--A Temperance Tract

English poem

V--A Temperance Tract

by

Listen in the reader

To Bob Dean

Cocktails are the little brooms That whiskey way your will-power! A dark disease is Bright's disease, And will not yield to pill-power. Some may upon red rums descant Who never did decant rums, But I have eaten bitter bread Where bitters breed their tantrums. The fool will give his life to booze, The wiser man taboos that, And I'm a sad Budweiser man Than when I used to ooze that. I owned a bank, and for a fad I cultivated two lips; If I had owned the mint itself 'Twould all have gone for juleps. Mumm's extra dry makes some men grow As dry as any mummy, But when I'm tight I loosen up-- A punch, and I am chummy. Except when I swore off in Lent With borrowers I mingled; They'd make my pockets cease to clink Whenever I was jingled. But though I drank with scarce a check My drafts saved people trouble, For I would often pay dubs twice Because I saw 'em double. O, cognac is a fearful drink To brandy man with shame, O! He will, that drinks diluted gin, Die looted of good name, O! I wined till I began to ail, And then I whined with aleing, Until to crown the woes I cite I found my eyesight failing. “Sir, fits will come,” my doctor warned, “Surfeits will bloat the mind, sir!” I laughed and took my glasses off And said, “I'll go it blind, sir!” Champagnes and real incider me Set my high spirits flagon; Still with gay dogs I played the wag, Deriding of the wagon. My tongue was like a cotton bale, All whitish from the gin, sir-- The doctor said “No tongue can state The state your tongue is in, sir!” “With so much rye and corn you cope, Your crowd are cornucopers-- How can earth be Utopia When peopled by you topers?” But still I dodged from fête to fête, Still followed by my fate, O! Still floating loans and liquids till My bank did liquidate, O! Buns use up dough; what my fun did, Were it refunded one day, Would fund the Banks of Newfoundland And float the Bay of Fundy. Don't hitch your wagon to a star Upon the brandy bottle; If you your neck to nectar ope Your hope 'twill surely throttle.