Classic Poem

I hadn't been mad for some five or six years,
And I feared I was getting too sane,
So I went for a night with my idiot peers
And was princely and foolish again.
I said what I thought of the church and the state,
And I argued and doubted and prayed,
And the company all were most highly elate
At the waggish remarks that I made.

The Bishop (I said) at my infidel mots
Will perspire in a doctrinal funk —
The Big Advertiser I'll tweak by the nose
And convict him of puerile bunk;
The political tribe, who are uttering tripe,
I'll abash with a barytone Bosh!
And I cried, as I kindled my fruity old pipe,
That it all will come out in the wash.

But here was the odd (and most saddening) thing
In my fine metaphysical spree:
The solemn old fakers whose necks I would wring
Were greatly delighted with me.
For they thought it was all just a rollicking joke,
And they smiled at the ferment of youth —
But never in anything ever I spoke
Did I stick quite so close to the truth!