Classic Poem

'T IS oh, for the might of a master mind
And the grace of a gifted pen!
That Apollo's lyre and Sappho's fire
Might be awaked again,
To suggest the choicest thoughts and words,
To assist, direct, indite,
And to make the song remembered long
Of the man who is always right!

Oh, beloved of all the gods is he,
The most fortunate of men!
And many of us are envious,
In spite of Commandment Ten,
As we see him glance serenely down
From his moral, mental height,
And note the smile, so free from guile,
Of the man who is always right!

His virtue, like Saint Anthony's
Is ninety above proof!
From cards and drink he wisely shrinks,
And holds himself aloof!
He has no venial weaknesses,
His soul is spotless, white;
Vice leaves no trace on the tranquil face
Of the man who is always right!

There is nothing that he does not know
All, everything about!
O'er questions vexed he is ne'er perplexed.
Nor troubled with a doubt!
His ipse dicta clouds dispel
As the day o'ercomes the night;
Oh, the happiest man since the world began
Is the man who is always right!

There is hope of a tree if it be cut down,
There is hope for the withered grass!
There is hope on the deck of a storm-toss'd wreck,
But no hope for us, alas!
We are doomed to be always in the wrong,
And to linger 'neath the blight
Of the chilly air and frosty glare
Of the man who is always right!