Heigho for the morning, murky and dark, When, heedless of threatening cloud, I ventured to visit the green College park, And mingled along with the crowd. I am almost now on insanity’s brink, And this I attribute to Either a fairy attired in pink Or an angel whose robe was blue.
The world considered my heart was flint, And futile were womanly wiles-- Sigh and ogle, whisper and hint, Glances and glittering smiles. I meant, uncontrolled by the marital link, My journey of life to go through, But in those days I hadn’t met beauty in pink, To say nothing of beauty in blue.
I’ve had thirty odd years of a bachelor’s life, Bachelor’s buttons and fare; And escaped all the bankruptcy, troubles, and strife That Benedicts weepingly share. But to-night I believe that I scarcely would shrink To join the Hymeneal crew, If the ship were controlled by a captain in pink Or a lovely commander in blue.
I didn’t go, like the mob, to the place For frivolous chatter and talk; I was interested in every race, Jump and hurdle and walk; Yet when all was over I’m hanged but I think-- Of course it can hardly be true-- That the quarter was won by a sprinter in pink, And the mile by a stayer in blue.
It’s over now, and I feel quite wise, For I mean in futurity’s days When I go to races to cover my eyes With glasses to temper my gaze, Lest my heart intoxicant draughts should drink Of Cupid’s ambrosial dew, Supplied by a nymph in bewildering pink Or equally dangerous blue.
I’m sick of music. I’m surfeited with music. I’m engulphed in an ocean of music. I’m buried beneath a mountain of music. The air I breathe is oxygenized with music. The food I eat is flavored with music. I go to sleep to the tootle of the flute next door; my slumbers are oppressed with the nightmare of a solo on the trombone by a demon across the way, and I wake to the crash of a grand piano that some fallen angel with forty-horse-power wrists tortures in the semi-detached gentlemanly residence at the back. In short, I live in a locality that is so utterly utter in the matter of harmonic proclivities that I feel wild enough to undermine and blow it to splinters. The sound of the explosion would be a welcome change.
But I have had revenge. Ha! ha! It was temporary, but bliss is brief. For six weeks the pianist behind my bedroom has been ringing the withers of my soul matutinally with selections from Wagner. For two months the trombonist over the way has been tearing my vitals asunder by his frantic efforts to extort unhallowed tones from his instrument. For a fortnight the flutist next door has congealed my blood with variations on the “Carnival of Venice.” They have had _one_ night from me. They won’t want another this side the Day of Judgment.