Classic Poem

Great Son of Bacchus! and of drousy Sloth!
Thou human Maggot, thou insipid Moth!
Whose whole Ambition is in bed to snore,
Whose Life is Liquor, and whose Soul's a roar.
Through thy dark skull ne'er peept a ray of light;
'Tis black as Chaos, and eternal Night;
Confusion's dizzy seat,—the pregnant source,
Where Nonsense issues with resounding force;
Where floods on floods, from Morn to Ev'ning pours,
Wrapt up in Laughs and loud unchristian roars.

When Sunday summons grave religious fools,
To pore o'er Books, or drink the Pulpit rules,
From vulgar bounds thou bravely dares to tread,
And spends thy Sunday gloriously in bed.
There thinks, perhaps, or dreams of Sin and Death,
This maxim holding as a point of faith,
“To Heav'n there's many ways, and 'tis confest,
Who finds the smoothest, surely finds the best.”

On God , or Temple, no respect thou puts:
An Inn's thy Temple, and thy God's thy guts.

A Father's precepts, or a Mother's tears,
His plain example, or her meddling fears,
Shall thou regard? No, 'twere past utt'rance low,
Such fools as Mothers or old Sires to know.
When at thy honour they advance their horns,
Thou d—ns her nonsense,—all his maxims scorns;
Comes home mad drunk, and, O immortal B!
Kicks up a dust, and knocks thy Mother down!