Here's To The Man Who

Here's To The Man Who Owns The Land That Bears The Grapes That Makes The Wine That Tastes As Good As This Does.

By Fate Full Many A Heart Has Been Undone, And Many A Sprightly Rose Made Woe-begone; Plume Thee Not On Thy Lusty Youth And Strength: Full Many A Bud Is Blasted Ere Its Bloom.

Dust Into Dust, And Under Dust To Lie, Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, And-sans End!

Up From Earth's Centre Through The Seventh Gate Rose, And On The Throne Of Saturn Sate; And Many A Knot Unravel'd By The Road; But Not The Master-knot Of Human Fate.

How Much More Of The Mosque, Of Prayer And Fasting? Better Go Drunk And Begging Round The Taverns. Khayyam, Drink Wine, For Soon This Clay Of Yours Will Make A Cup, Bowl, One Day A Jar. When Once You Hear The Roses Are In Bloom, Then Is The Time, My Love, To Pour The Wine; Houris And Palaces And Heaven And Hell- These Are But Fairy-tales, Forget Them All.