Classic Poem

(For Baritone and Bass)

What makes the cider blow its cork
With such a merry din?
What makes those little bubbles rise
And dance like harlequin?
It is the fatal apple, boys,
The fruit of human sin.

The fall of man, the fall of fruit,
So all things fall, pardee!
But in this world of mickle dross
I'm not pernickettee —
The sins they sinned in Eden, boys,
Are bad enough for me.

So when the deep disgust takes hold
And I am dumb and dry,
I'll quit the folk who pester me
And tell the world good-by,
And settle at the cider mill
In Jericho, L. I.

My mind is twinged with growing pains
And I desire to think;
And what I want to think about
Might not look well in ink —
I'll sit beside a cider jug
And take a little drink.

I will not answer letters, and
I will not have a phone:
For I would like to read a book
And just be left alone —
Beside the hissing cider jug
I'll make my private moan.

Beside the fuming cider jug
I'll spend my nights and days,
And on unanswerable stars
I placidly will gaze —
From ferment up to firmament
This ditty I will raise:

What makes the cider blow its cork
With such a merry din?
What makes those little bubbles rise
And dance like harlequin?
It is the fatal apple, boys,
The fruit of human sin.