DIOGENES

Diogenes lived in a tub His fellows analyzing; These words were carved upon his club: "First Class Philosophizing." If any question came his way Involving people's morals, The things that he felt moved to say Were sure to start some quarrels. In fact, his tub became a booth In which he dealt in wholesale truth.

This world was but a fleeting show— He knew a lot about it; When he was told a thing was so He then began to doubt it. He seldom left his narrow home— Not even on a Sunday; The only time that he would roam Abroad was on a Monday. He had to roam then, anyway, For that, you know, is washing day.

Society, with all its sham, Gave him a paroxysm; He always spoke in epigram And thought in aphorism. One day he took his lantern down And polished it and lit it— But first he frowned a peevish frown And growled: "The wick don't fit it." And then, with pessimistic scan, He sought to find an honest man.

Diogenes has long been dead; His search was not well heeded, For no historian has said If ever he succeeded. But there's this thought for you and me: It would not be quite pleasant If on that quest the sage should be With his fierce light, at present. For, if he were, one may but think How much that light would make him blink.