Omar Khayyam

Though many a great Philosopher

Has earned the Epicure's diploma,

Not one of them, as I aver,

So much deserved the prize as Omar;

For he, without the least misgiving,

Combined High Thinking and High Living.

He lived in Persia, long ago,

Upon a somewhat slender pittance;

And Persia is, as you may know,

The home of Shahs and fubsy kittens,

( A quite consistent habitat,

Since “Shah,” of course, is French for “cat.” )

He lived — as I was saying, when

You interrupted, impolitely —

Not loosely, like his fellow-men,

But, vice versa, rather tightly;

And drank his share, so runs the story,

And other people's, con amore.

A great Astronomer, no doubt,

He often found some Constellation

Which others could not see without

Profuse internal irrigation;

And snakes he saw, and crimson mice,

Until his colleagues rang for ice.

Omar, who owned a length of throat

As dry as the proverbial “drummer,”

And quite believed that ( let me quote )

“One swallow does not make a summer,”

Supplied a model to society

Of frank, persistent insobriety.

Ah, fill the cup with nectar sweet,

Until, when indisposed for more,

Your puzzled, inadhesive feet

Elude the smooth revolving floor.

What matter doubts, despair or sorrow?

To-day is Yesterday To-morrow!

Oblivion in the bottle win,

Let finger-bowls with vodka foam,

And seek the Open Port within

Some dignified Inebriates’ Home;

Assuming there, with kingly air,

A crown of vine-leaves in your hair!

A book of verse ( my own, for choice ),

A slice of cake, some ice-cream soda,

A lady with a tuneful voice,

Beside me in some dim pagoda!

A cellar — if I had the key,—

Would be a Paradise to me!

In cosy seat, with lots to eat,

And bottles of Lafitte to fracture

( And, by-the-bye, the word La-feet

Recalls the mode of manufacture ) —

I contemplate, at easy distance,

The troublous problems of existence.

For even if it could be mine

To change Creation's partial scheme,

To mould it to a fresh design,

More nearly that of which I dream,

Most probably, my weak endeavour

Would make more mess of it than ever!

So let us stock our cellar shelves

With balm to lubricate the throttle;

For “Heav'n helps those who help themselves,”

So help yourself, and pass the bottle!

What! Would you quarrel with my moral?

( Waiter! Leshavanotherborrel! )