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Verse and Worse
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Regardless as to life and limb,
A shady lair he chooses there;
And if you tumble over him,
He simply loves to hear you swear.
And, while bad language you prefer,
He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!
PART III
PERVERTED PROVERBS
I
'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD'
Virtue its own reward? Alas!
And what a poor one, as a rule!
Be Virtuous, and Life will pass
Like one long term of Sunday-school.
(No prospect, truly, could one find
More unalluring to the mind.)
The Model Child has got to keep
His fingers and his garments white;
In church he may not go to sleep,
Nor ask to stop up late at night.
In fact he must not ever do
A single thing he wishes to.
He may not paddle in his boots,
Like naughty children, at the sea;
The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits
Is not, alas! for such as he.
He watches, with pathetic eyes,
His weaker brethren make mud-pies.
He must not answer back, oh no!
However rude grown-ups may be;
But keep politely silent, tho'
He brim with scathing repartee;
For nothing is considered worse
Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.
He must not eat too much at meals,
Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;
However vacuous he feels,
He may not pass his plate for more;
– Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache
For further slabs of Christmas cake.
He is commanded not to waste
The fleeting hours of childhood's days,
By giving way to any taste
For circuses or matinées;
For him the entertainments planned
Are 'Lectures on the Holy Land.'
He never reads a story-book
By Rider H. or Winston C.,
In vain upon his desk you'd look
For tales by Arthur Conan D.,
Nor could you find upon his shelf
The works of Rudyard – or myself!
He always fears that he may do
Some action that is infra dig.,
And so he lives his short life through
In the most noxious rôle of Prig.
('Short Life' I say, for it's agreed
The Good die very young indeed.)
Ah me! how sad it is to think
He could have lived like me – or you!
With practice, and a taste for drink,
Our joys he might have known, he too!
And shared the pleasure we have had
In being gloriously bad!
The Naughty Boy gets much delight
From doing what he should not do;
But, as such conduct isn't Right,
He sometimes suffers for it, too.
Yet, what's a spanking to the fun
Of leaving vital things Undone?
The Wicked flourish like the bay,
At Cards or Love they always win,
Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,
They fatten while the Good grow thin.
The Righteous Man has much to bear;
The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!
For, though he be the greatest sham,
Luck favours him, his whole life through;
At 'Bridge' he always makes a Slam
After declaring 'Sans atout';
With ev'ry deal his fate has planned
A hundred Aces in his hand.
Yes, it is always just the same;
A shady lair he chooses there;
And if you tumble over him,
He simply loves to hear you swear.
And, while bad language you prefer,
He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!
PART III
PERVERTED PROVERBS
I
'VIRTUE IS ITS OWN REWARD'
Virtue its own reward? Alas!
And what a poor one, as a rule!
Be Virtuous, and Life will pass
Like one long term of Sunday-school.
(No prospect, truly, could one find
More unalluring to the mind.)
The Model Child has got to keep
His fingers and his garments white;
In church he may not go to sleep,
Nor ask to stop up late at night.
In fact he must not ever do
A single thing he wishes to.
He may not paddle in his boots,
Like naughty children, at the sea;
The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits
Is not, alas! for such as he.
He watches, with pathetic eyes,
His weaker brethren make mud-pies.
He must not answer back, oh no!
However rude grown-ups may be;
But keep politely silent, tho'
He brim with scathing repartee;
For nothing is considered worse
Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.
He must not eat too much at meals,
Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor;
However vacuous he feels,
He may not pass his plate for more;
– Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache
For further slabs of Christmas cake.
He is commanded not to waste
The fleeting hours of childhood's days,
By giving way to any taste
For circuses or matinées;
For him the entertainments planned
Are 'Lectures on the Holy Land.'
He never reads a story-book
By Rider H. or Winston C.,
In vain upon his desk you'd look
For tales by Arthur Conan D.,
Nor could you find upon his shelf
The works of Rudyard – or myself!
He always fears that he may do
Some action that is infra dig.,
And so he lives his short life through
In the most noxious rôle of Prig.
('Short Life' I say, for it's agreed
The Good die very young indeed.)
Ah me! how sad it is to think
He could have lived like me – or you!
With practice, and a taste for drink,
Our joys he might have known, he too!
And shared the pleasure we have had
In being gloriously bad!
The Naughty Boy gets much delight
From doing what he should not do;
But, as such conduct isn't Right,
He sometimes suffers for it, too.
Yet, what's a spanking to the fun
Of leaving vital things Undone?
The Wicked flourish like the bay,
At Cards or Love they always win,
Good Fortune dogs their steps all day,
They fatten while the Good grow thin.
The Righteous Man has much to bear;
The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!
For, though he be the greatest sham,
Luck favours him, his whole life through;
At 'Bridge' he always makes a Slam
After declaring 'Sans atout';
With ev'ry deal his fate has planned
A hundred Aces in his hand.
Yes, it is always just the same;
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