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by

Existence being sorrow,
The cause of it desire,

A merry tune I borrow
to light upon the lyre:

If death destroy me quite.
Then, I cannot lament it;

I've lived, kept life alight,
And—damned if I repent it!

 

Let me die in a ditch
Damnably drunk
Or lipping a punk,

Or in bed with a bithc!
I was ever a hog;

Dung? I am one with it!
Let me die like a dog;

Die, and be done with it!

 

As far as reason goes,
There's no hope for mortals yet:

When nothing is that knows,
What is there to regret?

Our consciousness depends
On matter in the brain;

When that rots out, and ends,
There ends the hour of pain.

 

If we can trust to this
Why, dance and drink and revel!

Great scarlet mouths to kiss,
And sorrow to the devil!

If pangs ataxic creeps,
Or gout, or stone, annoy us,

Queen Morphia, grant thy sleep!
Let worms, the dears, enjoy us!

 

But since a chance remains
That “I” survives the body

(So talk the men whose brains
Are made of smut and shoddy),

I'll stop it if I can,
(Ah, Jesus, if Thou couldest!)

I'll go to Martaban
To make myself a Buddhist.

 

And yet: the bigger chance
Lies with annihilation.

Follow the lead of France,
Freedom's enlightened nation!

Off! sacerdotal stealth
Of Faith and fraud and gnosis!

Come, drink me: Here's thy health,
Arterio-sclerosis!

 

Let me die in a ditch
Damnably drunk
Or lipping a punk,

Or in bed with a bithc!
I was ever a hog;

Dung? I am one with it!
Let me die like a dog;

Die, and be done with it!

 

And so—
Farewell!

 

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