From many a classic scroll and tome
In golden texts the warnings shine:
“If you must drink, get soused at home!
Will you get pickled? Then use brine!”
Each generation gets a sign,
But each one needs another prod
From scriptures human or divine—
The Wastrel always drops his Wad!
Sleek Athens from the Attic loam
With ill intention coaxed the vine—
Arcadian Simps admired the foam
While hair-oiled City Gents malign
Dropped philters in the neatherd's stein—
Soon Corydon upon the sod
Lay coinless with a cloven chine—
The Wastrel always drops his Wad!

When Gallic ginks Cook-toured to Rome,
Or roaring Teutons from the Rhine,
The thought would fill some yokel's dome
To dally with the stranger's wine—
Next reel: tough students sprain his spine
And bean him with a curule rod
And roll him down the Palatine:
The Wastrel always drops his Wad!
Raus! Bacchus, with that breath of thine,
And sad eyes like a bilious cod!
Me for the Tracts—I've learned, in fine,
The Wastrel always drops his Wad!