The poem
On the tide you ride head high, Like a whale 'mid little fishes; I should envy you as I Help my wife to wash the dishes. Yet frock-coat and stove-pipe hat Cannot hide your folds of fat.
You are reckoned a success, And the public praise you win; There's your picture in the Press, Pouchy eyes and triple chin. Wealth,--of it you fairly stink; Health,--what does your Doctor think?
Dignity is phoney stuff. Who is dignified deep down? Strip the pants off, call the bluff, Common clay are king and clown. Let a bulging belly be Your best bid for dignity.
Miserable millionaire! For indulgence you must pay. Yet there's salvation in prayer,-- Down on your fat knees and pray. Know that with your dying breath There is dignity in death.