Beyond Arcturus, in a peevish wind,
I met a rumpled devil beating home.
“And whence, poor Fiend,” I challenged, “hast
thou come
With ragged plumage ravelled out behind
And splintered teeth and lamps all blear and blind?
What Fate hath bent a skillet o'er thy dome?”
He sighed, and in that sigh I read a tome
Of bleeding sorrows and
an aching mind.
“Rough Stuff,” he moaned, “was what I got for
mine!
It was fierce Virtue put me on the bum,
Trampled my slats and wronged my winsome face—
Once I was loved and called the Angel Wine!
Kicked hellward now, and hurtling out through space,
I am known only as the Demon Rum!”