Classic Poem

O have you been in Wowserland? — But I forgot. I'll swear
That I was told there's nothing short of saints and angels there.
Perhaps you went a penitent. They say the faith is grand,
And all is pure and all is clean up there in Wowserland.

O yes, I'd been in Wowserland, for many a fearsome year;
And I escaped from Wowserland, per medium of beer.
I was a living skeleton, I'd scarcely any sand,
My hair was grey that desperate day I cut from Wowserland.

But is there faith in Wowserland, and is there faith and truth?
And is there love in Wowserland, and is there love and youth?
The good folk here, they tell me things I cannot understand,
They say they have no use for such as we, in Wowserland.

There is no youth in Wowserland, there's nothing clean and sweet;
There is no faith in Wowserland, but treachery and deceit.
There is no truth in Wowserland, where shamming never dies —
Those half and those three quarter lies — the slimiest kind of lies.

But is there love in Wowserland — for love is everywhere?
There must be some full-blooded men and warm-eyed women there?
And are there men in Wowserland — men of the rebel brand?
They're found in every other land — why not in Wowserland?

There is no love in Wowserland, but bloodlessness and dust;
And where there's strength in Wowserland there's hidden hate and lust.
But there are men in Wowserland, and I know one at least,
A leader of a rebel band who should have been a priest.