LET no man say that I am nearly done for.
My head is bowed but not unduly bloody,
And though my trousers are a trifle muddy,
Mud, after all, is what the tweed was spun for.
I have an ounce of gold; what is a ton for?
The gem-encrusted Gaekwar on his gadi,
The swart director in his paneled study,
The general, wondering whom the war was won for,
The darlings of Society, bright with toppers,
The landed gent, who sees his acres shrinking,
Are no more blithe than I, who scrape for coppers,
And spend the few I get on eating, drinking,
Paraffin, income tax and electricity.
There’s no such thing as limitless felicity.
R. P. LISTER
PUNCH, September 28 1955