Classic Poem

By the old Bath Road Pagoda
Looking Eastward for her tea
There's a Secretary sitting
And she don't think much of me.
But she thinks of my subscription
And from time to time will say,
" Are you coming, harmless creature, coming to the I.D.K.?
Coming to the I.D.K.
You might find a word to say,
Make a timid observation to the listening I.D.K. "
When the weary ages say —
" Who shall light us on our way? "
In a voice resembling thunder I reply " The I.D.K. "

The Bar, the Stage, the Pulpit,
The Battlefield, the Bank,
Have remarked a certain Manner
Adorn a certain rank
When in streaming tears they ask us
We gravely smile and say
" This you only gain by coming, coming to the I.D.K. "
You may know the I.D.K.
We have all a certain way
An undetermined Something which is the I.D.K.
When the weary ages say —
" Who shall light us on our way? "
In a voice resembling thunder I reply " The I.D.K. "

Then some are nuts on Karma
And some go blind on Monks
And Manners simply stunning
And as for Morals — chunks.
For there one member hammers
And there another Smiles
And when I get on ethics —
I wreck the town for miles.
Mighty Caesar turned to clay —
Interests the I.D.K.
And other passing aspects of the topics of the day.
When the weary ages say —
" Who shall light us on our way? "
In a voice resembling thunder I reply " The I.D.K. "

The furniture is flying —
I'm lying in the grate
And in the blind confusion
I find my necktie straight.
Just look behind the sofa
There's two Agnostics missed
By raking round the fender you'll find a pessimist
O ye toiling sons of clay —
Kings and Lords whom you obey
Labour long, O labour truly to be like the I.D.K.
When the weary ages say —
" Who shall light us on our way? "
In a voice resembling thunder I reply " The I.D.K. "

Ship me somewheres west by Chiswick
Where the low is like the high
Where there ain't no Mrs. Grundy
And a man can wear a tie
For I'm learning here in Fleet Street
What the hoary exile tells
If you've heard the Park a-calling you won't never heed naught else
No you won't heed nothing else.
But the tales Miss Frances tells
And the theories and the trumpings and the brand-new heavens and hells
When the clamourous nations say
" Who shall guide us on our way? "
In a voice resembling thunder I observe " The I.D.K. "