Gin

To him remarked his fiancée

As he was set to go away,

“Whatever peril you are in

Swear you won’t resort to gin”.

Once he arrived in regions far

He went to visit the bazaar.

Against the fearful native din

He thought to take a sip of gin,

When he, arrayed in khaki pants,

Would go out hunting elephants.

The sun would make his head spin,

He took a thermos full of gin

As fierce uprisings were put down.

Time after time inside the town

He celebrated every win

By toasting all his troops in gin.

He mumbled “I’m awfully tired”,

Then shortly after he expired,

But not before one last tin

Of something that was labelled gin.

His fiancée came with a wreath

Where he was laid six feet beneath,

Abandoned by his kith and kin

Because he had succumbed to gin.