Sometimes, old pal, in the morning,
When the dawn is cold and gray,
And I lie in the perfumed blankets
Thinking thoughts that I dare not say,

I think of the stunts of the night before
And smile a feeble smile
And say to myself the hundredth time
Is it really worth the while?

I pick up the morning papers
And see where some saintly man
Who never got stewed in all his life,
Who never said hell nor damn,
Who never stayed out till the wee small hours,
Or courted a gay soubrette,
But preached on the evils of drinking,
The wine and the cigarette-

"Cut off in the prime of life,'
The headlines glibly say;
Or 'He went to meet his Maker'
And "He's passed the Great White Way."
They bury him deep while a few friends weep,
And the world moves on without a sigh,
And the saintly man is forgotten soon
Even as you and I.

Then I say to myself "Well, Bill, old scout,
When it's time to take the jump
And you reach that place where the best and worst
Must bump the eternal bump,
You can smile to yourself and chuckle,
Though the path be exceedingly hot
When you were on earth you were going some,
Now is that an unholy thought?'

So I arise and attach a cracked ice band
To the crown of my battered hat,
And saunter forth for a gold gin fizz
She's a great old world at that;
And I go on my way rejoicing
What's the use to complain or sigh
Go the route, old scout, and be merry,
For tomorrow you may die.

- Anonymous

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