Back in the Bosom, Repentant and Bloodshot

Back in the bosom, repentant and bloodshot, / Under the draper-sly skies, / I try to forget my week in the mudpot / And cottonwool it in lies:

‘I do not, my dear, pretend that I mastered / Altogether the intemperate vice.

I may in the Gargoyle have fallen down plastered, / But I did see my publishers-twice.

You wouldn't believe me were I to aver

That I never went out "on the bust".

You'll pardon the phrase? Ah, thank you, my dear, / And I did see an editor-just.

Now let us be frank. I behaved, I'm afraid, / Like a squalid and tiddly dunce.

But I really was brave in that terrible raid, / And I did make some money-once. '