Put down the bottle, old man,
And let your bile spill in puddles
Near the bed;
It's that time again.

Drop your hatred, old man,
Time will smoothe your worry-creases;
Lay your head;
It's that time, and then,

When you rise again, in pain of sun,
Don't sigh.
We, the living, will go on for long,
In a new path we tread.
It's our time now.
Good night. Good bye.

The hatred and the bottle (i.e.,whiskey) seem to
belong to Mr. G.D., not Beba'le
Oh dear, what free-floating hatred
and what conscience-deadening whiskey
Yet Twiddle-dee says contrawise
and he (she) is honorable woman