How slowly do the mornings pass
For members of that leisured class
Whose ancestors, by striking oil,
Have saved them from a life of toil!
Those dreary hours from 10 to 1 —
Nothing accomplished, nothing done —
Increase the mental ennui which
Is such a bugbear to the rich!

And yet, though thoughts of boredom irk
And drive some men to honest work,
Pause ere you take a step so rash,
For if you do not need the cash,
Mere labour for its own sweet sake
Is, you'll admit, a great mistake.

A millionaire who once I knew
Would slave away, the whole day through;
Leaving his couch at 8 a.m.
(A practice I for one condemn),

He'd leap into his car at nine
And, ev'ry morning, rain or shine,
Down to his City office hum,
Chewing a wad of scented gum
And reading the " Financial News "
(A paper I should never choose).

Once having reached his office chair,
This poor misguided millionaire
Would park his gum beneath his desk
(A habit none too picturesque)
And start in working right away,
Nor ever quit till close of day!

What happened? His neglected wife,
Compelled to lead a double life,
Eloped for sev'ral long week-ends
With one or other of his friends!
And while the neighbours said: " Tut-tut!
How she does fool that poor old Mutt! "
Oblivious of his wife's affairs,
He thought of naught but Bulls and Bears!

His daughters, too, from morn till night,
Freed from paternal oversight,
Went " movie-mad " and, if you please,
Absconded to Los Angeles!
And while they often might be seen
Featured as " stars " upon the screen,
Marrying actors of repute,
Divorcing those that didn't suit —
Fresh husbands each returning day
Hover around them as they play —
Heedless of what they might become,
Their father toiled and chewed his gum!

Meanwhile his son, quite uncontrolled —
A gump, but with a heart of gold —
Had forged his father's name on cheques
For members of the fairer sex,
And would have gone to jail, I know,
Had he not been too rich to go!

Immersed in business all day long,
My poor old friend thought nothing wrong,
And died, as happy as could be,
From overwork, at ninety-three.
Whereas, I venture to suggest,
If he had been content to rest
He might (had he remained alive)
Have lived to — — well, say, ninety-five!