If you cannot be the needle, be the thread;
If you cannot ride a motor, be a ped.;
If you cannot cut the figure
Of a bloke chockful of vigour,
Please be dead—
’Tis the softest snap of any to be dead.
If you cannot be a hero, be a skunk;
If you cannot be the barman, be the drunk;
If you cannot scale Parnassus
Flop right down among the asses,
Friend! kerplunk—
Like a flapjack on a platter, lob kerplunk.
If you cannot be the ocean, be a drop;
If you cannot be the sergeant, be a cop;
It is not the act of falling
That is said to be appalling,
But the stop—
There’s a prejudice, somehow, against the stop.
If you cannot win the heiress, take the cook;
If a failure as a burglar, be a “hook”;
’Tis the worst of all life’s phases,
If you’re on the road to blazes,
To go crook—
And the world just guys you worse for going crook.
If you can’t get gin and bitters, stick to rum;
If you cannot be a spendthrift, be a hum;
If your credit grows so slender
That you can’t dig up a bender,
Take a thrum—
There’s a dim religious light about the thrum.
If you cannot be the candle, be the moth;
If you cannot be the weaver, be the cloth;
If Life’s waitresses say “Dicken!”
When you reach out for the chicken,
Cop the broth—
There’s a deal of consolation in the broth.
Doesn’t matter if you’re single or you’re wed,
Still the rose-leaves always crumble in your bed;
But the sea ahead is placid,
Just a dose of prussic acid,
And you’re dead—
Those alternatives won’t matter when you’re dead.