Because my overcoat's in pawn, I choose to take my glass Within a little bistro on The rue du Montparnasse; The dusty bins with bottles shine, The counter's lined with zinc, And there I sit and drink my wine, And think and think and think.
I think of hoary old Stamboul, Of Moslem and of Greek, Of Persian in coat of wool, Of Kurd and Arab sheikh; Of all the types of weal and woe, And as I raise my glass, Across Galata bridge I know They pass and pass and pass.
I think of citron-trees aglow, Of fan-palms shading down, Of sailors dancing heel and toe With wenches black and brown; And though it's all an ocean far From Yucatan to France, I'll bet beside the old bazaar They dance and dance and dance.
I think of Monte Carlo, where The pallid croupiers call, And in the gorgeous, guilty air The gamblers watch the ball; And as I flick away the foam With which my beer is crowned, The wheels beneath the gilded dome Go round and round and round.
I think of vast Niagara, Those gulfs of foam a-shine, Whose mighty roar would stagger a More prosy bean than mine; And as the hours I idly spend Against a greasy wall, I know that green the waters bend And fall and fall and fall.
I think of Nijni Novgorod And Jews who never rest; And womenfolk with spade and hod Who slave in Buda-Pest; Of squat and sturdy Japanese Who pound the paddy soil, And as I loaf and smoke at ease They toil and toil and toil.
I think of shrines in Hindustan, Of cloistral glooms in Spain, Of minarets in Ispahan, Of St. Sophia's fane, Of convent towers in Palestine, Of temples in Cathay, And as I stretch and sip my wine They pray and pray and pray.
And so my dreams I dwell within, And visions come and go, And life is passing like a Cin- Ematographic Show; Till just as surely as my pipe Is underneath my nose, Amid my visions rich and ripe I doze and doze and doze.