Classic Poem

Nineteen hundred miles from home
We have crossed the ocean's foam;
Left our kin and comrades dear,
Shed the customary tear;
Left whatever life is worth
For the rummest place on earth —
For the Paradise of Fools.

All good things to eat and drink,
Left for what? You'd never think!
Tough old bull-beef, mud-fed swine,
Store-made liquors, logwood wine!
Every blessed day the same:
Change is nothing but a name
In the Paradise of Fools.

Recreation? There is none;
If there were, 'twould weary one!
Innocence and sportiveness?
Bitter foes and nothing less!
Cards and cocktails, yes; galore!
Only these, and nothing more
In the Paradise of Fools.

Hold! There's one thing I forget:
Scandal peddling's left us yet!
God knows, there's enough of that
To make a shrunken mummy fat!
Be the subject low or high,
We must gossip — or we die
In the Paradise of Fools.

Yet we're happy, blithe, and gay;
Else we'd go away and stay!
How we kick and squirm and shout
O'er attempts to drive us out!
We are all content to dwell
In this suburb of — ah, well!
In the Paradise of Fools.