Talk to Tipplers

               To the centre be sunken
               The cup that makes drunken!
All blossoms of life in its burning have shrunken.
               Your wink-waking cider
               Will bite like a spider,
Yet sparkle and flatter—the fatal derider!

               Mild claret and sherry
               You think will make merry,
But “wine is a mocker,” hock, port, or madeira.
               All bitters are bitter,
               With them it were fitter
To poison the dogs that your senses to fritter.

               You may think it is queer
               But you ought to spell bier
Like the Futch, that the death in it so shall appear.
               On lager and porter
               Your days will grow shorter,
The stouter your “stout” is, the weaker your sort are!

               There’s something too risky
               In sipping at whisky,
Though it happen to make you feel merry and frisky.
               There’s measureless sin
               In a “weazle” of gin,
And you’d better quit “popping” it where you begin.

               The “horribles” come
               From a bottle of rum,
Like smoke from a chimney, or noise from a drum,
               And a tipple of brandy,
               Though smuggled through candy,
Brings death and destruction to fearfully handy.

               Then far be it sunken,
               Whatever makes drunken;
And sweet grow the blossoms its fire would have shrunken,
               Till hearts it made barren,
               Anointed like Aaron,
Bear roses and lilies, the glory of Sharon!