  IN the market-place or forum, If you’re dull, my cockalorum, Never heed the censor morum, But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker, Is a patent pick-me-up. It was near the Yorkshire Stingo That in modern London lingo, With a face like a flamingo, Said a friend of mine, “By Jingo! What a wretched wreck you are!” I replied, “I’m melancholic, And my pains are diabolic. I, who once was frisk and frolic, Now am glum and vitriolic— Every nerve is on the jar! Then a smile that was sardonic Beamed about his brow Byronic, And he said, “This is masonic, But I think you want a tonic— Try the famous (something) wine.” And he further said with unction That I need have no compunction In obeying his injunction, ’Twould renew each vital function, And just suit a case like mine. I have drunk and I’m a giant Quite refreshed and grown defiant; All my limbs are free and pliant, And now neither May nor Bryant Can supply a match to me. Now my pen again grows graphic, And my verse is strictly sapphic, And my tricycle in traffic I can ride with smile seraphic, From all nervous tremors free. I can laugh at Punch and Judy, And enjoy a book from Mudie; I am spick and span and dudey, And I freely spend my scudi, And I feel that I could fly. All my acts are strictly legal, And I’ll wager that an eagle, Though he’d taken Mother Seigel, Couldn’t show as clear an eye. So in market-place or forum, If you’re dull, my cockalorum, Never heed the censor morum, But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker, Is a patent pick-me-up. |
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