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.