Joseph Aleo

Though I find myself gratified by the renewal of my long-cherished tradition—reading, each day throughout October, a tale spun by that master of cosmic terror, H.P. Lovecraft—I confess an unshakable disquiet. There is something faintly profane in absorbing these eldritch horrors through the cold, pallid luminescence of a backlit Kindle screen rather than from the ancient, worn pages of a proper tome. Yet, what choice have I? The modern world, in all its indifferent progress, has forced my hand. And so be it.

But the olive grove still stands, as does the tree growing out of the tomb of Kalos, and the old bee-keeper told me that sometimes the boughs whisper to one another in the night-wind, saying over and over again, “Οἶδα! Οἶδα!—I know! I know!”

Today’s story, “The Tree,” is one I have read before—yet now, with the deeper knowledge gleaned from perusing the works of Algernon Blackwood and Arthur Machen, I find myself newly attuned to Lovecraft’s craft. His tale grows more haunting with each re-reading, as though the fabric of its mystery darkens with age.

In the desolate foothills of Mount Maenalus in Arcadia, an olive grove casts a sepulchral pall over a crumbling villa and an ancient tomb of marble. From this ground, there rises a grotesque, distorted tree—a hideous mockery of human form, its gnarled roots shifting the very stones of the tomb beneath it.

The tale, as our narrator relays it, came from the lips of a simple beekeeper. In those ancient days, the villa was home to two illustrious sculptors, Kalos and Musides. Though bound by the deepest of friendships, they differed greatly in their souls. Kalos sought the quietude of the olive grove, where he communed with strange inspirations; Musides reveled in the life of the city. The Tyrant of Syracuse sent emissaries to these two, demanding a statue of Tyché, goddess of fortune. Yet, as fate would have it, Kalos fell gravely ill, leaving Musides to watch in despair as his friend grew weaker.

As Kalos lay dying, his calm stood in stark contrast to Musides’ grief. He made one strange request—that olive twigs be buried near his head when his inevitable death came. And so it was. From that burial sprouted a great olive tree, unnaturally swift in its growth, overshadowing the unfinished work of Musides.

Three years passed, and Musides completed his statue. Yet in the end, a malevolent storm, like the very hand of fate, came howling down from the mountain. The next morning, the villa was found in ruins, the statue crushed beneath the twisted boughs of the tree, and Musides vanished without a trace.

Thus, the story ends as it began—with that grim reminder: “Fata viam invenient”—fate will find a way, no matter how we struggle against its inescapable pull.

I have once again embraced my tradition of immersing myself, each day of this accursed October, in the unsettling visions conjured by that inimitable master of cosmic horror, H.P. Lovecraft. Today’s selection, “The Terrible Old Man,” proved to be a tale of remarkable brevity—so much so that I consumed its dark essence in the span it took for my coffee to brew. Yet, despite its brevity, the tale was no less steeped in the ineffable dread and creeping unease that so defines Lovecraft’s works.

And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.

In the shadow-haunted town of Kingsport, there exists a figure whose name has long been swallowed by the tides of time. This ancient man, once rumored to have been a captain of clipper ships that sailed the unwholesome waters of the East, dwells alone in a decrepit house on Water Street, where the years have worn away the barriers between the mundane and the unknown. The very air around the house is heavy with a dread beyond mortal comprehension, and though few dare to speak of it, those who pass his dwelling whisper of bizarre collections of stones in his yard and of strange, eldritch conversations with bottles upon his table—bottles that, inexplicably, seem to respond in kind.

It was against this grim and arcane backdrop that three men—Angelo Ricci, Joe Czanek, and Manuel Silva—sought the treasures whispered to lie within. With greed-fueled bravado, Ricci and Silva entered the abode, leaving Czanek outside, oblivious to the cosmic horrors lurking within. When the ghastly cries shattered the stillness, Czanek, unaware of the lurking forces, presumed mere mortal violence had ensued. But from the ancient threshold emerged not his comrades, but the old man himself, his eyes aglow with an unnatural, yellow luminescence, a smile twisted in unspeakable malevolence.

Later, the mutilated corpses of the would-be thieves were discovered near the sea, their bodies ravaged by horrors unknown to earthly men, as if by the cruel hands of spectral sailors from some nameless void. The people of Kingsport murmured of strange happenings, but the ancient figure remained detached from the prattle of the world, his mind surely preoccupied with forces far older, far darker, than any living soul could fathom.

In the eldritch gloom of an overcast October dawn, I partook of my renewed ritual—devouring one tale a day from the master of cosmic dread, H.P. Lovecraft. This morning, bathed in the bleak, spectral light that seemed to mirror the very essence of doom, I embarked upon the baleful journey that is “The Case of Charles Dexter Ward.” Indeed, had I waited for the merciless San Diego sun to rise in all its garish splendor, the experience would have been irrevocably tainted, its otherworldly horror dispelled by that damnable orb.

You cannot deceive me, Joseph Curwen, for I know that your accursed magic is true!

The tale itself unfurls like a miasma of ancestral terror. Charles Dexter Ward, the scion of a venerable Rhode Island family, vanishes from a mental asylum after succumbing to madness—a madness rooted in revelations far beyond mortal comprehension. His family doctor, the resolute Marinus Bicknell Willett, delves into the young man’s unsettling descent, uncovering an unspeakable truth. Ward, bewitched by the shadow of his ancestor, Joseph Curwen—an infernal necromancer of the eighteenth century—dared to unearth those ancient and malevolent rites that might summon the dead from their unhallowed rest.

Willett’s investigation drags him into a labyrinthine catacomb, a hellish underworld where Curwen once wrought horrors beyond imagination. There, amidst the nameless whispers and dreadful relics, the doctor uncovers not only Curwen’s return but his infernal pact with necromancers of yore—an alliance that imperiled the very fabric of humanity. Yet, through the dark machinations of fate, Willett unwittingly calls forth a being hostile to Curwen, one that imparts the knowledge needed to unmake the sorcerer.

In the end, it is in the grim confines of the asylum that Willett brings the tale to its calamitous close, dissolving Curwen to dust and obliterating his vile conspirators. Thus does one nightmare cease—yet I, the reader, am left haunted by the cosmic shadow of others still lurking.

I have once again renewed my eldritch tradition—immersing myself, one tale a day, in the dark and unnameable horrors spun by the master himself, H.P. Lovecraft, throughout October. To be sure, it is a peculiar sensation reading such works under the relentless sunshine of San Diego rather than amidst the autumnal shadows of New England. Yet, despite the incongruity of my surroundings, the strange pleasure I derived from revisiting “The Doom That Came to Sarnath” remained undiminished. Truly, the title itself is a blasphemous hymn to the unholy—one that is, as the modern youth might say, “metal AF!”

Where once had risen walls of 300 cubits and towers yet higher, now stretched only the marshy shore, and where once had dwelt fifty millions of men now crawled only the detestable green water-lizard. Not even the mines of precious metal remained, for DOOM had come to Sarnath.

More than 10,000 years ago, a race of shepherds, hardy and ambitious, colonized the banks of the river Ai in the land of Mnar. They founded the cities of Thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron, and from there, their avarice led them to the desolate shores of a vast, dark lake, where they established the mighty city of Sarnath. Yet, there, beside the silent waters, lay the grey and ancient city of Ib, home to a queer, voiceless race who had descended from the Moon itself. These beings—green-skinned, with bulging eyes and flabby lips—worshipped the great water lizard Bokrug, and for their grotesque forms alone, the men of Sarnath loathed them.

In their arrogance, the Sarnathians rose in merciless slaughter, wiping out the inhabitants of Ib, razing the city to the ground, and carrying back the idol of Bokrug as a symbol of their victory. But that night, as the idol vanished from the temple and the high priest Taran-Ish was found dead, with the single word “DOOM” scrawled in his final moments, the true fate of Sarnath was sealed.

A thousand years later, when Sarnath had reached the zenith of its power, a feast was held to celebrate the destruction of Ib. But the revelry was cut short by strange green mists rising from the lake, sending waves of terror through the city. Survivors claimed to have seen the long-dead inhabitants of Ib staring out from the towers of Sarnath. The following day, Sarnath was no more—vanished, leaving only a desolate marsh crawling with water lizards and the missing idol of Bokrug. From that dark day forward, Bokrug reigned supreme in Mnar, a grim reminder of the doom that befell the proud city of Sarnath.

One of the strange and unforeseen pleasures of my autumnal tradition—reading one tale per day from H.P. Lovecraft throughout October—has been the unsettling realization that, even after years of this ritual, there still linger tale of his prose yet undiscovered. Some of these forgotten works, it must be admitted, are but dim echoes of his grander nightmares, relegated perhaps justly to the fringes of anthologies. Yet, there are those—like “The White Ship”—that stir within me a deep, indescribable awe, transporting me, like poor Basil Elton, to realms that no human tongue can fully describe.

And thereafter the ocean told me its secrets no more; and though many times since has the moon shone full and high in the heavens, the White Ship from the South came never again.

Elton, our solitary lighthouse keeper, is drawn under the pale glow of the full moon to the phantom vessel of a bearded mariner, whose ship, like a thing of dreams, drifts on spectral seas. Across a shimmering bridge of moonbeams, he steps into uncharted dimensions, visiting lands forgotten by the waking mind—Zar, where unremembered dreams dwell, and Thalarion, a city of dreadful wonders from which no soul returns. They traverse Xura, a treacherous paradise that promises joy from afar, but exudes pestilence upon approach. And in Sona-Nyl, the land untouched by time, Elton lingers for untold eons, yet it is the elusive Cathuria, the “Land of Hope,” that calls to him with a maddening pull.

Against the mariner’s wisdom, Elton demands to seek this enigmatic land, and so they embark on a westward journey fraught with unseen peril. But Cathuria remains a phantom, and instead, they reach the world’s precipice, where the ship is swallowed into the gaping void beyond all existence. Elton awakens, shaken, upon the jagged rocks of his lighthouse, just in time to witness the doom of a mortal ship that perished in the darkened waters below—victim to his extinguished light. Haunted still by this eerie voyage, Elton later discovers the lifeless form of an azure bird and a splinter from the white ship, tangible remnants of his fateful passage into realms beyond human ken. The white ship, it seems, shall haunt him no more.

Having once more embraced my solemn October custom of perusing a tale from the dread pen of H.P. Lovecraft each day, I find myself startled by the discovery of narratives long buried within the murk of forgotten lore. Today’s chilling revelation, “The Transition of Juan Romero,” unveils a departure from Lovecraft’s familiar, shadow-haunted Rhode Island, evoking the muscular atmospheres of Robert E. Howard’s own fevered imaginings.

At one time I fancied I had gone mad—this was when, on wondering how our way was lighted in the absence of lamp or candle, I realised that the ancient ring on my finger was glowing with eerie radiance, diffusing a pallid lustre through the damp, heavy air around.

The tale recounts a mining expedition’s dreadful encounter with an abyss of unimaginable depth, whose yawning maw refuses to yield to the probing lines of mortal men. The very night following this accursed revelation, our narrator, along with the ill-fated Mexican miner, Juan Romero, are irresistibly drawn into the mine, lured by a grotesque and inhuman pulsation from beneath the earth. Romero, reaching the abyss first, is inexorably consumed by it. The narrator, peering over its lip, is confronted by a vision so eldritch, so terrible, that he dares not speak of what he witnessed, his reason faltering as he falls into unconsciousness.

Come morning, both Romero is found lifeless in his bunk, untouched by any journey to the depths, while the chasm—oh, that unholy pit—has utterly vanished, as if it had never been. Other miners, in dread certainty, swear that Rmowro had stirred from his cabin that fateful night.

I’m excited to see Shinya Tsukamoto’s Tetsuo: The Iron Man on the big screen later this month! The last time I watched it was last century on a VHS cassette I ordered through Amok Books. That movie had such an impact on me that I named Lord Tsukamoto, the big bad from my comic book, VIKINGS vs SAMURAI, after him.

One of the strange and eldritch pleasures in traversing the labyrinthine depths of H.P. Lovecraft’s literary oeuvre is the occasional uncovering of tales previously unknown, like forgotten relics buried beneath the sands of time. Such a discovery is  “Old Bugs,”  a curious departure from the cosmic dread that so often permeates his works. Here, Lovecraft weaves not a tale of unimaginable horrors lurking at the edges of our reality, but a morality play, quaint and unexpectedly grounded in the human experience.

The old man would then rise from the floor in anger and excitement, muttering threats and warnings, and seeking to dissuade the novices from embarking upon their course of “seeing life as it is”.

Set during the grim days of Prohibition, Chicago’s Sheehan Billiard Room becomes a bleak refuge for souls lost to vice and despair. Within its shadowed walls toils Old Bugs, a man corroded by his own ruinous choices, yet possessing fleeting glimpses of a once-refined intellect. When young Alfred Trever, lured by his friend Pete Schultz into this pit of moral decay, steps through the tavern’s ill-fated doors, Old Bugs, in a rare moment of lucidity, pleads with the boy to turn away from the path that consumed him. It is a simple tale, but one that holds a quiet horror of its own—the horror of human frailty, and of lives unraveled not by cosmic forces, but by the slow, inevitable decay of the self.

In the shadow-haunted hours of October, I find myself steeped in the grim, forgotten pages of The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft. With an arrogance bred of years, I had foolishly believed I had traversed every eldritch corner of the master’s mind—had braved every unutterable horror he conjured from the abyss. Yet this collection, more vast than I had ever imagined, now reveals the depth of my error. Today, my trembling hands turned the pages of “Memory,” a strange tale that, to my disquiet, felt both new and familiar—as if dredged from some dim recess of my own shattered recollections, or perhaps a dream long forgotten.

I am Memory, and am wise in lore of the past, but I too am old. These beings were like the waters of the river Than, not to be understood. Their deeds I recall not, for they were but of the moment. Their aspect I recall dimly, for it was like to that of the little apes in the trees. Their name I recall clearly, for it rhymed with that of the river. These beings of yesterday were called Man.

In the shadow-haunted vale of Nis, where ancient and nameless horrors sleep beneath the creeping foliage, monolithic ruins lie crumbled and forgotten, their stones now the abode of loathsome grey toads and slithering serpents. Towering trees, twisted and gnarled, stretch their limbs over the accursed landscape, while small, gibbering apes cavort through the decaying remnants of a civilization long lost to time’s relentless grip. Across this forsaken land, the foul and sluggish river Than winds its red and slimy course, a baleful reminder of untold eons past.

Amidst this bleak desolation unfolds the tale of “Memory,” wherein two eldritch beings, the Genie who haunts the moonbeams and the Daemon of the Valley, converse. The Genie, ethereal and luminous, inquires of the Daemon, who in that distant age erected the towering stones now in ruin. The Daemon, ancient and burdened by the weight of forgotten ages, replies with grim certainty: the creatures were called Man, remembered only because their name echoed that of the cursed river Than. Dimly, he recalls their form—resembling, in some monstrous fashion, the shrieking apes that now infest the ruins of their works.

As the Genie returns to his ethereal domain of moonlight, the Daemon, with eyes aglow with the dim embers of forgotten knowledge, watches silently as one of these pitiful apes scurries through the ruins—a grotesque echo of what once was.

In the rhythm of the sacred winds and the ancient drums, I speak of my brother, tttlllrrr, who shall call forth the Flayed Sun in the sacred circle of role-playing, in the months to come. And as the stars guide our destinies, I, a humble seeker of knowledge, shall walk the path of wisdom. Nerd that I am, in preparation for this game, I will immerse myself in the teachings of James Maffie’s tome, Aztec Philosophy: Understanding a World in Motion, to strengthen my spirit and sharpen my mind. For the game is not just a game—it is a journey into the heart of the cosmos, where all things are in motion.

In accordance with a custom that has become as much ritual as indulgence, I persist in my daily readings throughout this haunted month of October, immersing myself in the cryptic and eldritch narratives penned by the very architect of cosmic dread, H.P. Lovecraft. On this particular day, I find myself drawn inexorably into the strange and haunting corridors of his work, “Beyond the Wall of Sleep,” where realms beyond our comprehension glimmer darkly on the edge of perception.

It had long been my belief that human thought consists basically of atomic or molecular motion, convertible into ether waves of radiant energy like heat, light, and electricity. This belief had early led me to contemplate the possibility of telepathy or mental communication by means of suitable apparatus, and I had in my college days prepared a set of transmitting and receiving instruments somewhat similar to the cumbrous devices employed in wireless telegraphy at that crude, pre-radio period.

Our narrator, a former intern at that dread institution, the mental hospital, recounts a singularly unsettling encounter with one Joe Slater, a man whose brutal hands had delivered him to the clutches of law and madness alike. Slater, a coarse and untutored denizen of the wild Catskill Mountains, had been condemned for murder, his mental faculties deemed shattered beyond repair. Yet, from the moment of his confinement, there emerged in him a wild and otherworldly fury, manifesting in violent seizures and ravings, incomprehensible to those around him. Nightly, Slater would plunge into these fearful fits, each outburst more lurid than the last, describing in his crude vernacular visions of a burning entity—an astral presence bent on vengeful retribution. The doctors, baffled by the savage’s uncouth and rustic nature, could not fathom how such untaught lips could shape such spectral images.

It was then that the narrator, seized by a morbid curiosity and remembering the strange apparatus he had once devised for the purpose of telepathic communion, resolved to investigate further. This device, born of the radical theory that thought might indeed be a form of radiant energy, had yet yielded no success. But now, as Slater teetered on the edge of oblivion, the narrator fastened his creation to Slater’s fevered brow. What followed shattered the foundations of all the narrator had known. Through the medium of this deranged mind came a revelation—an ancient truth too horrible to contemplate. A being of light, inhabiting Slater’s form but unbound by flesh, spoke of realms beyond sleep, where their slumbering souls wander amongst unfathomable planes, untouched by mortal understanding.

The being revealed its impending battle with an eternal nemesis near the distant star Algol, a conflict waged in a realm where matter was meaningless. When Slater at last succumbed, a brilliant star flared into existence near Algol, burning bright in the night sky before fading over the following weeks. The eerie coincidence left me pondering whether Slater’s death had not merely been a release but the herald of something far more cosmic and terrifying.

In the waning days of October, as the eldritch chill of autumn crept through the twilight hours, I once again revived my sacred tradition. Each day, a solitary tale from the arcane mind of the master of cosmic horror, H.P. Lovecraft, graced my thoughts, casting shadows deeper than the encroaching night. Today, I turned my trembling gaze to “Polaris,” that star-born nightmare, whose otherworldly light pierces through the veil of forgotten time and forgotten dreams.

Slumber, watcher, till the spheres
Six and twenty thousand years
Have revolv’d, and I return
To the spot where now I burn.
Other stars anon shall rise
To the axis of the skies;
Stars that soothe and stars that bless
With a sweet forgetfulness:
Only when my round is o’er
Shall the past disturb thy door.

Our tale commences with a narrator, adrift in long, sleepless vigils beneath the infinite vault of night, his gaze riveted upon the baleful presence of Polaris, the Pole Star. He describes it as a malignant, watchful eye, a cosmic sentinel that seems to convey an ancient and terrible message, now long forgotten. One fateful night, beneath a ghostly aurora that writhed above his swamp-bound abode, the narrator’s mind is drawn into a strange dream—a marble city, stark and silent, perched upon a lonely plateau, and bathed in the eerie light of Polaris.

Within this spectral city, he observes its denizens, conversing in a language unknown yet disturbingly familiar to his ears. Upon waking, the dream clings to his consciousness like a shadow, returning night after night, growing ever more vivid and insistent. Our narrator’s obsession deepens, as he grapples with a terrible uncertainty: could this otherworldly city be real? Could his waking life be the true illusion?

Over time, his desire to merely observe the city transforms into something darker, more desperate. He begins to question the very fabric of reality, unsure whether his fragile existence belongs to the waking world or the dream-realm. In one fateful vision, he finds himself not merely a distant observer, but an inhabitant of the city—Olathoë, upon the plateau of Sarkis, in the ancient land of Lomar, now besieged by the brutish Inutos.

Assigned to a watchtower, he is tasked with guarding the city from invasion. Yet as he gazes upon Polaris, its malignant power grips him, and he hears an ancient, cryptic rhyme whispered by the hateful star. Overtaken by confusion, he succumbs to sleep, failing in his duty. Upon awakening, he finds himself once more in his swamp-bound home, yet now utterly convinced that his life is but a dream, and that his true fate lies eternally bound to the lost city of Olathoë, forever unreachable, forever haunting.

In this accursed month of October, I have embarked upon a dread and solitary journey, wherein I shall immerse myself, each day, in the abominable works of the master of cosmic terror, H.P. Lovecraft. Today’s offering to the void is that eldritch tale of unspeakable horrors, “Dagon.”

The end is near. I hear a noise at the door, as of some immense slippery body lumbering against it. It shall not find me. God, that hand! The window! The window!

In this ghastly testament of a broken soul, a man ravaged by morphine recounts a nightmarish incident during his time as an officer in World War I. After his cargo ship is seized by a German raider in the desolate Pacific, he escapes in a lifeboat, drifting aimlessly until he lands upon a loathsome black mire. This hellish wasteland, strewn with decaying sea creatures, seems to be the ocean’s floor, upheaved by some cosmic force from unfathomable depths.

For days, he traverses this foul expanse, finally arriving at a monstrous chasm, where a great white monolith stands. Carved with indecipherable aquatic hieroglyphs and grotesque sculptures, the stone hints at an ancient, aquatic civilization. As he gazes in horror, a nightmarish creature rises from the depths—its form too ghastly to comprehend.

In terror, the mariner flees back to his boat, losing consciousness in a storm, only to awaken later in a San Francisco hospital. There, no one believes his story of the unearthly Pacific upheaval. Even his inquiries into the ancient Philistine god Dagon are dismissed.

Plagued by haunting visions, especially during the gibbous moon, and with his narcotic escape fading, the narrator prepares to end his life. As he writes, he hears a terrifying sound outside—something immense and slick pressing against the door. His final cry, filled with madness, invokes the horror of a monstrous hand at the window before the narrative ends in unspeakable terror.

In the shadowy recesses of my youth, each October I partook in a most curious ritual—a daily communion with the macabre genius of H.P. Lovecraft, immersing myself in one of his dread-laden tales as autumn’s chill encroached. Today, that ancient tradition stirred once more within my soul, compelling me to delve into the spectral pages of “The Tomb.” How strange, yet wondrous, was my discovery that the band Rudimentary Peni had woven Lovecraft’s very drinking song from “Dream City” into their haunting opus, Cacophony! Truly, it was as though the eldritch whispers of the Old Ones still echo through the dim corridors of our modern world.

“The Tomb” unfurls with the darkly enchanted life of Jervas Dudley, a soul possessed by strange reveries. From childhood, his spirit is drawn to a long-abandoned mausoleum belonging to the Hyde family, whose mansion had perished in fire and ruin. Jervas, unable to breach the tomb’s padlock, succumbs to a peculiar obsession, taking solace in slumber beside its cryptic entrance. Yet in the shadowy intervals of years, the tomb seems to call him, beckoning him with spectral light and forgotten secrets.

One fateful night, Dudley uncovers a key in an ancient chest, long since rotten. He descends into the depths of the tomb, finding a coffin eerily inscribed with his own name—“Jervas.” Each night thereafter, Jervas believes himself drawn to rest within that sepulcher, though others see him only beside it, untouched by its interior gloom. Haunted by strange forebodings of thunder and flame, his once peaceful contemplations unravel into visions of debauched revelry within the now-restored Hyde mansion—a phantasmagoric feast doomed to burn as it once had, and again, he perishes within its inferno.

Yet when he awakens, Jervas finds himself restrained, declared mad. The tomb’s lock, untouched by mortal hands, betrays no entry. Consigned to an asylum, his mind writhes in the unfathomable, until his faithful servant, Hiram, at last breaks the lock and reveals what lurked below: the coffin, bearing his name. Jervas, his fate entwined with ancestral doom, declares that he will one day take his rightful place, not in life, but in death’s eternal slumber, as the grave he sought all along was, indeed, his own.

Come hither, my lads, with your tankards of ale,
And drink to the present before it shall fail;
Pile each on your platter a mountain of beef,
For ‘tis eating and drinking that bring us relief:
So fill up your glass,
For life will soon pass;
When you’re dead ye’ll ne’er drink to your king or your lass!

Anacreon had a red nose, so they say;
But what’s a red nose if ye’re happy and gay?
Gad split me! I’d rather be red whilst I’m here,
Than white as a lily–and dead half a year!
So Betty, my miss,
Come give me a kiss;
In hell there’s no innkeeper’s daughter like this!

Young Harry, propp’d up just as straight as he’s able,
Will soon lose his wig and slip under the table;
But fill up your goblets and pass ‘em around–
Better under the table than under the ground!
So revel and chaff
As ye thirstily quaff:
Under six feet of dirt ‘tis less easy to laugh!

The fiend strike me blue! I’m scarce able to walk,
And damn me if I can stand upright or talk!
Here, landlord, bid Betty to summon a chair;
I’ll try home for a while, for my wife is not there!
So lend me a hand;
I’m not able to stand,
But I’m gay whilst I linger on top of the land!