Bomba Djin

You may talk o’ gin and bitters,
While the natives bear the litters,
Through the dry and dusty streets of old Bombay,
You may coldly plan the slaughter,
Of the bloke who serves you water,
Or a sissy drink, like crème de menthe frappe,
Now in Inja’s sunny weather,
It was fun to get together,
To hoist a few and contemplate our sin,
And the tales of elbow benders,
Often dwell on great bartenders,
But the greatest of them all was Bomba Djin.

You had never long to linger,
As he mixed the perfect stinger,
He was quick to pour, and quicker yet to stir,
And it seemed to us ironic,
As we guzzled down his tonic,
That he’s the one that always called us “Sir”,
That grizzled native blighter,
With an ever-ready lighter,
To give a flame to anyone’s cigar,
He was slovenly and lowly,
But by everything that’s holy,
He was lord and regal master of the bar.
It was “Djin! Djin! Djin!
You limpin’ lump of sawdust, Bomba Djin,
Mix martinis dryer,
So to get us fellows higher,
You soggy bottle tosser, Bomba Djin.

I shan’t forget the morn,
As we heard the bugler’s horn,
And I thought perhaps that I was doomed to die,
I crawled from ‘neath the table,
And as best as I was able,
I viewed the barroom through a jaundiced eye,
But all that I could see,
Were the signs of revelry,
Of us poor ol’ sods with ne’er a chance to win,
And a’smilin’ through it all,
As he swabbed the Johnny hall,
Was the cause of all our mis’ry, Bomba Djin.
It was Djin! Djin! Djin!
You sweepin’ son o’ Satan, Bomba Djin,
You treated us uncouth,
When you used too much vermouth,
You served us wet martinis, Bomba Djin.

Right then! We strung him up,
‘Fore we had our mornin’ sup,
And we left his carcass rottin’ in the sun,
It seemed the thing to do,
But since then, I tell you true,
Our happy hours haven’t been much fun,
Us misbegotten boozers,
Are a pack of bloody losers,
A new man, name of Khayaam tends the bar,
The drinks are watered down,
By that simple-minded clown,
And it costs too much, forgettin’ who we are.
For it’s Djin! Djin! Djin!
You colossal docile fossil Bomba Djin,
Though you never did deserve us,
You never underserved us,
You’re a better man than Khayaam, Bomba Djin.



With apologies to Mr. Kipling