Oh, foolish flapper, keen to be
Considered cute and up-to-date,
Sit down a while and hark to me,
And I shall truly read your fate
Not in a tea-cup, sweetling mine;
But in the leas of a gin-and-two,
Manhattans swigged before the wine,
Martinis guzzled ere you dine;
There shall I trace your fortune true.

What see we in the stickly smear
Where still the liquor lingers, damp?
A sorry group of hags are here -
Gin-eaters, such as Mistress Gamp.
Here lurks a warning, precious pet,
For those who walk the wobbly path.
That crystal fluid, don't forget,
Was ne'er ingurgitated yet
Without some awful aftermath.

And here we see your own sweet self
Sipping some hocussed hypocrene.
Innocuous? Nay, charming elf,
It may be colored pink or green,
Ambrosial amber; 'spite the hue
Such dopes deceptive men sneak in
Its basic bane yet lingers true;
It's giggle-juice, a droll's brew,
It's 'mother's ruin,' per; it's GIN!

Gin that has brought the shame of age,
The maudlin speech, the muddled mind,
Since olden days to saint and sage,
To Sairey Gamp and all her kind.
And if you (as I'll not suppose)
Be 'so dispoged' to misbehave,
I read your progress to the close:
The glazing eye, the reddening nose,
The hobnail liver, and the grave.