Don't Let's Go To The Dogs Tonight,

Aven, I Have Given Up Smoking Again!... God! I Feel Fit. Homicidal, But Fit. A Different Man. Irritable, Moody, Depressed, Rude, Nervy, Perhaps; But The Lungs Are Fine.

For I Must Write To The Times Tonight, And Save The World From Sin.

The Rain Is Plentious But, By God's Decree, Only A Third Is Meant For You And Me; Two-thirds Are Taken By The Growing Things Or Vanish Heavenward On Vapour's Wings: Nor Does It Mathematically Fall With Social Equity On One And All. The Population's Habit Is To Grow In Every Region Where The Water's Low: Nature Is Blamed For Failings That Are Man's, And Well-run Rivers Have To Change Their Plans.

Don't Let's Go To The Dogs Tonight, For Mother Will Be There.

Elderly Gentlemen, Gentle In All Respects, Kind To Animals, Beloved By Children, And Fond Of Music, Are Found In Lonely Corners Of The Downs, Hacking At Sandpits Or Tussocks Of Grass, And Muttering In A Blind, Ungovernable Fury Elaborate Maledictions Which Could Not Be Extracted From Them By Robbery Or Murder. Men Who Would Face Torture Without A Word Become Blasphemous At The Short Fourteenth. It Is Clear That The Game Of Golf May Well Be Included In That Category Of Intolerable Provocations Which May Legally Excuse Or Mitigate Behavior Not Otherwise Excusable.