The Lure Of The Thirst

THE Lure OF The Thirst
392

I’ve lost my duds, my home and job,
My coin is burid deep;
And jewels all with watch and fob
Beneath the ashes sleep

My beauty, too, has taken flight,
Complexion’s sadly marred;
A ton of brick from topmost height
My features badly scarred

My feet are cut with sharp-edged brick,
The flames have singed my hair;
My lungs with dust are coated thick,
I’m much the worse for wear

But woes like these all count for naught
For deeper grief now rends;
Another clime will soon be sought
Where busy barkeep tends

My tongue is out upon my chin,
My throat’s a desert waste,
And shriveled is my drying skin,
My stomach seems misplaced

No foam is on the ruddy steam,
No bead is in the rye;
No lights along “the line” now gleam,
The town is closed and dry

Then me for the burg of the open shop,
For the land of freest stews,
Where fire or quake will never stop
The steady flow of booze