A Drinking Song

Landlord, I mean to sing to-night;
To-night I mean to sing.
But bring no wine, nor red, nor white,
Nor no such filthy thing.
To sit in an inn, and soak with gin,
Is hateful to my mind;
The glass I clink is crowned with drink
Of a purely temperance kind.

Chorus

With drink of a temperance kind, my lads,
My foaming cup is crowned.
So uncork the Bovril, Landlord, dear,
And pass the Cocoa round
And round,
And pass the Cocoa round!

You Poets of a drunken Muse,
Are men of little note.
You have to booze and booze and booze,
To get your wits afloat
Of Christian beer and right good cheer
You make a great parade.
But I can bawl above you all
On gassy Gingerade!.

Chorus

On gassy Gingerade, my sons,
A beverage light and sound,
So decanter the Lime-juice, Landlord, dear,
And trot the Kola round
And round,
And trot the Kola round!

Milton and Homer both were bards
Of a highly tedious kind;
For why? because these selfsame cards
For half their lives were blind.
But Byron, who declared that wines
With him did disagree,
Could write the most astounding lines
On stinking fish and Tea.

Chorus

On stinking fish and Tea, my boys,
(At one and nine the pound),
So, Landlord, get the Kippers cooked,
And rush the teapot round
And round,
And rush the teapot round!

Marlowe and Shakespeare won renown
As Poets, it is true;
And at the " Mermaid " would sit down
To beef and barley brew;
But Shaw eats cake and shies at ales,
And his plays are just as good.
And Garvice writes his serial tales
On purely cereal food.

Chorus

He lives on cereal food, my friends,
And so does Ezra Pound
So, Landlord, open the Plasmon tin,
And pass the Nutto round
And round,
And pass the Nutto round!

But I've one more proof, and a better one still;
For the most conclusive sign
That in order to sing you need not swill,
Are these here lines of mine.
My songs, while men shall see the sun,
With wonder they'll review;
And the best of it is that the whole thing's done
On Mineral Waters, too.

Chorus

On Ginger-pop I sing until I drop
And flounder on the ground.
So, Landlord, carry me out with care,
For your inn is turning round
And round,
Your inn is turning round!
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.