Music written, produced and performed by Chris Gard
All songbook poems arranged by Panama Hat.
Lyrics have been drawn directly from Rudyard Kiplings "The Betrothed"; the lyrics are not fully true to the original, as I had to assemble verses that were easy to sing comprehensibly to the meter and rhythm of the music itself.

//

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot,
And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of vapour musing up me Maggie’s face.
O, Maggie’s pretty to look at— O, Maggie’s a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks’ll wrinkle, and the truest of love’ll pass.

There’s peace in a Larranaga, calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is both finished and thrown away—
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown—
But I couldn’t throw away me Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town!

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot,
And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Which is the better portion—love bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

I will scent ’em with vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of all of me brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love or me good ol’ Nick o’ Teen.

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot,
And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere’ me eyelids close,
This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee’s passion—to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty they will send me my brides again!

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas, and o’er a good cheroot,
And, O, she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew—
Old friends, who is Maggie that I should abandon you?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke!
O, a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke!

//

Mr. Hat's comments on the original poem:

"...this poem discusses the thoughts of a young man weighing up the benefits of cigars versus women. In 2015, a Durham academic discovered a marriage case (breach of promise) reported in a New Zealand newspaper from 1888 which reported that a young woman, Maggie Watson, was suing her fiancé, one William Kirkland, on the grounds that he refused to marry her because she insisted that he give up smoking."

Uh, hello, Based Department?

свернуть