THE PHILOSOPHER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB

Fair and worthless things that die Praising their goddess Vanity Here gather. Like a violin Many a sweetly-scented Sin Whispers. Many a bright-wreathed Folly, Finding its roses turned to holly, Seeks with Pleasure’s aid to fend That Boredom which is Folly’s end. Wherefore the violins make moan. For these “the visible world” alone Exists; and “ah that it should pass!” They cry, and fill a trembling glass. “Here’s to Beauty!” (surnamed Lust) They cry; and e’er it falls to dust, “Love it,” they cry, “and hug it well.” “To whatsoever heaven or hell Fate builds for fools, these surely go,” Thought the moralist watching this tinsel show. “Yet is it not difficult to know Who best deserve the name of Fool, These or those more respectable Most moral folks I know so well?... These make of living a foolish sham, These play a silly blind man’s game, Chasing bubbles like a fool. But the others like a sullen mule Play at nothing at all, and so Think they’re good because they’re dull— Where, in the name of sense, will they go?” Upon which curious reflection The sad and wondering sage arose, Paid for his drink and blew his nose, Brushed the confetti from his clothes, And shuffled forth in deep dejection.