قراءة كتاب Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many
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اللغة: English
Perverted Proverbs: A Manual of Immorals for the Many
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Unrecognized to toil away, Like Millet—not, of course, Millais.
And, pray, for Morals do not look In this unique agglomeration, —This unpretentious little book Of Infelicitous Quotation. I deem you foolish if you do, (And Mr. Russell thinks so, too).
"Virtue is Its Own Reward"
Virtue its own reward? Alas! And what a poor one as a rule! Be Virtuous and Life will pass Like one long term of Sunday-School. (No prospect, truly, could one find More unalluring to the mind.)
You may imagine that it pays To practise Goodness. Not a bit! You cease receiving any praise When people have got used to it; 'Tis generally understood You find it easy to be good.
The Model Child has got to keep His fingers and his garments white; In church he may not go to sleep, Nor ask to stop up late at night. In fact he must not ever do A single thing he wishes to.
He may not paddle in his boots, Like naughty children, at the Sea; The sweetness of Forbidden Fruits Is not, alas! for such as he. He watches, with pathetic eyes, His weaker brethren make mud-pies.
He must not answer back, oh no! However rude grown-ups may be, But keep politely silent, tho' He brim with scathing repartee; For nothing is considered worse Than scoring off Mamma or Nurse.
He must not eat too much at meals, Nor scatter crumbs upon the floor; However vacuous he feels, He may not pass his plate for more; —Not tho' his ev'ry organ ache For further slabs of Christmas cake.
He is enjoined to choose his food From what is easy to digest; A choice which in itself is good, But never what he likes the best. (At times how madly he must wish For just one real unwholesome dish!)
And, when the wretched urchin plays With other little girls and boys, He has to show unselfish ways By giving them his choicest toys; His ears he lets them freely box, Or pull his lubricated locks.
His face is always being washed, His hair perpetually brushed, And thus his brighter side is squashed, His human instincts warped and crushed; Small wonder that his early years Are filled with "thoughts too deep for tears."
He is commanded not to waste The fleeting hours of childhood's days By giving way to any taste For circuses or matinées; For him the entertainments planned Are "Lectures on the Holy Land."
He never reads a story book By Rider H. or Winston C., In vain upon his desk you'd look For tales by Richard Harding D.; Nor could you find upon his shelf The works of Rudyard—or myself!
He always fears that he may do Some action that is infra dig., And so he lives his short life through In the most noxious rôle of Prig. ("Short life" I say, for it's agreed The Good die very young indeed.)
Ah me! How sad it is to think He could have lived like me—or you! With practice and a taste for drink, Our joys he might have known, he too! And shared the pleasure we have had In being gloriously bad!
The Naughty Boy gets much delight From doing what he should not do; But, as such conduct isn't Right, He sometimes suffers for it, too. Yet, what's a spanking to the fun Of leaving vital things Undone?
If he's notoriously bad, But for a day should change his ways, His parents will be all so glad, They'll shower him with gifts and praise! (It pays a connoisseur in crimes To be a perfect saint at times.)
Of course there always lies the chance That he is charged with being ill, And all his innocent romance Is ruined by a rhubarb pill. (Alas! 'Tis not alone the Good That are so much misunderstood.)
But, as a rule, when he behaves (Evincing no malarial signs), His friends are all his faithful slaves, Until he once again declines With easy conscience, more or less, To undiluted wickedness.
The Wicked flourish like the bay, At Cards or Love they always win, Good Fortune dogs their steps all day, They fatten while the Good grow thin. The Righteous Man has much to bear; The Bad becomes a Bullionaire!
For, though he be the greatest sham, Luck favours him his whole life through; At "Bridge" he always makes a Slam After declaring "Sans atout"; With ev'ry deal his fate has planned A hundred Aces in his hand.
And it is always just the same; He somehow manages to win, By mere good fortune, any game That he may be competing in. At Golf no bunker breaks his club, For him the green provides no "rub."
At Billiards, too, he flukes away (With quite unnecessary "side"); No matter what he tries to play,