Verse and Worse Part 7

Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit!

This is _overdoing_ it!'

VII

THE CAT

(_Advice to the Young_)

My children, you should imitate The harmless, necessary cat, Who eats whatever's on his plate, And doesn't even leave the fat; Who never stays in bed too late, Or does immoral things like that; Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!'

He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash!

When shadows fall and lights grow dim, He sits beneath the kitchen stair; 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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 matinees; 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 role 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; He somehow manages to win, By mere good fortune, any game That he may be competing in.

At Golf no bunker breaks his club, For him the green provides no 'rub.'

At Billiards, too, he flukes away (With quite unnecessary 'side'); No matter what he tries to play, For him the pockets open wide; He never finds both b.a.l.l.s in baulk, Or makes miss-cues for want of chalk.

He swears; he very likely bets; He even wears a flaming necktie; Inhales Egyptian cigarettes, And has a 'Mens Inconscia Recti'; Yet, spite of all, one must confess That nought succeeds like his excess.

There's no occasion to be Just, No need for motives that are fine, To be Director of a Trust, Or Manager of a Combine; Your Corner is a public curse, Perhaps, but it will fill your purse.

Then stride across the Public's bones, Crush all opponents under you, Until you 'rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves'; and, when you do, The widow's and the orphan's tears Shall comfort your declining years!

Myself, how lucky I must be, That need not fear so gross an end; Since Fortune has not favoured me With many million pounds to spend.

(Still, did that fickle Dame relent, I'd show you how they _should_ be spent!)

I am not saint enough to feel My shoulder ripen to a wing, Nor have I wits enough to steal His t.i.tle from the Copper King; And there's a vasty gulf between The man I Am and Might Have Been;

But tho' at dinner I may take Too much of Heidsick (extra dry), And underneath the table make My simple couch just where I lie, My mode of roosting on the floor Is just a trick and nothing more.

And when, not Wisely but too Well, My thirst I have contrived to quench, The stories I am apt to tell May be, perhaps, a trifle French;-- (For 'tis in anecdote, no doubt, That what's Bred in the Beaune comes out.)--

It does not render me unfit To give advice, both wise and right, Because I do not follow it Myself as closely as I might; There's nothing that I wouldn't do To point the proper road to _you_.

And this I'm sure of, more or less, And trust that you will all agree-- The Elements of Happiness Consist in being--just like Me; No sinner, nor a saint perhaps, But--well, the very best of chaps.

Share the Experience I have had, Consider all I've known and seen, And Don't be Good, and Don't be Bad, But cultivate a Golden Mean.

What makes Existence _really_ nice Is Virtue--with a dash of Vice.

II