Oh, Iím sick of the whole darned human race,
And Iím sick of this earthly ball;
Iím sick of the sight of my brotherís face,
And his works and talk and all;
Iím sick of the silly sounds I hear,
Iím sick of the sights I see;
Omar Khayyam he knew good cheer,
And itís much the same with me.
Give me a bit of a bough to sit
Beneath, and a book of rhyme,
And a cuddlesome girl that sings a bit
But donít sing all the time;
Thatís all I ask, and itís only just;
For itís all that I hold dear---
A bough and a book and a girl and a crust;
That and a jug of beer.
Then Iíll cuddle my girl and Iíll quaff my ale
As we sit on the leafy floor;
And when the book and the beer jug fail,
Iíll cuddle my girl some more.
For jugs give out and books get slow,
But you take my tip for square---
Though the bough and the book and the beer jug go,
The girl, sheís always there.
Iím sick of the sound of my fellowsí voice;
Iím sick of their schemes and shams;
Of trying to choose when there ainít no choice,
And of damning several damns;
So, give me a girl that ainít too slow.
You can keep your book of rhyme
And your bough and bread and beer. Wot O!