San Francisco is a mad city—inhabited for the most part by perfectly insane people whose women are of a remarkable beauty.
Five and twenty ponies Trotting through the dark— Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk; Laces for a lady, letters for a spy, And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
I—'ave—marched—six—weeks in 'Ell an' certify It—is—not—fire—devils, dark or anything, But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war!
If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied.
And that is called paying the Dane-geld; But we've proved it again and again, That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld You never get rid of the Dane.
On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
The Three in One, the One in Three? Not so! To my own Gods I go. It may be they shall give me greater ease Than your cold Christ and tangled Trinities.