LINES BY A TIRED CITY CLERK.
115
I would be a holy terror—
Or I'm very much in error—
To the mothers that are called the ones "in law,"
And my sixteen wives' relations
I'd put on salted rations,
And lock them in a dungeon cold and raw.
Or I'm very much in error—
To the mothers that are called the ones "in law,"
And my sixteen wives' relations
I'd put on salted rations,
And lock them in a dungeon cold and raw.
I would have an hundred horses,
And would spend the realm's resources
Upon drinks of every clime and every age.
By Bacchus, how I'd go it!
Steeped in rum, I'd be a poet
And rhyme in wrathful rhapsodies of rage.
And would spend the realm's resources
Upon drinks of every clime and every age.
By Bacchus, how I'd go it!
Steeped in rum, I'd be a poet
And rhyme in wrathful rhapsodies of rage.
Then, Allah ila Allah!
Let the Norseman have Valhalla;
But for me, I'll take the rare and racy East.
For, by the bearded prophet!
This life I live is Tophet,
And a clerk is but a slave, to say the least.
Let the Norseman have Valhalla;
But for me, I'll take the rare and racy East.
For, by the bearded prophet!
This life I live is Tophet,
And a clerk is but a slave, to say the least.
