Here's to the babe on the day he is born,
And to the gnarled old man , wrinkled and worn;

Here's to the student rebelling for his rights,
And the soldier dying in winless fights;

Here's to that winsome lass in hollywood,
And the party girl doing things she never would;

Here's to wall street, golden glitter, silver shine,
And the crash like the one in twenty-nine;

Here's to the last preacher, his congregation is gone,
And to the hypocrites awaiting judgement's dawn;

Here's to big business, thinking it runs the world,
And to creeping socialism, a flag yet unfurled;

Here's to john q. Public, alternately stupid and wise,
And to the sad knowledge behind the oracle's eyes;

Here's to the politician, living beyond the laws,
And the crashing crescendo he makes when he falls;

Here's to American graffiti, poignantly clear,
Indifferent red wines and whisky and beer;

Last but not least, here's to the man on the cross,
His life, everyman's gain - his death, death’s loss;

William Everyman 1970

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