Don't say "Good day," Then grab the door and slam it. Be quite Polite; Go out, and then say, "---- it."
A pipe, a book, A cosy nook, A fire,--at least its embers; A dog, a glass;-- 'T is thus we pass Such hours as one remembers.
Who'd wish to wed? Poor Cupid's dead These thousand years, I wager. The modern maid Is but a jade, Not worth the time to cage her.
In silken gown To "take" the town Her first and last ambition. What good is she To you or me Who have but a "position"?
So let us drink To her,--but think Of him who has to keep her; And _sans_ a wife Let's spend our life In bachelordom,--it's cheaper.
Ma pauvre petite, My little sweet, Why do you cry? Why this small tear, So pure and clear, In each blue eye?
'My cigarette-- I'm smoking yet?' (I'll be discreet.) I toss it, see, Away from me Into the street.
You see I do All things for you. Come, let us sup. (But oh, what joy To be that boy Who picked it up.)
You are frowning; I don't wonder. Reading Browning; Hard as thunder!
Oh, excuse me; You adore it? You amuse me; I abhor it.
Let me see it. Who has taught you? Now to me it-- Ah, I've caught you.
It _must_ be hard so (Hence the frown?) To read the bard so-- Upside down.
The wail of the 'cello is soft, sweet, and low; There are strains of romance in the thrumming banjo. The violin's note--feel it float in your ear; And the harp makes one fancy that angels are near.
The voice of a young girl can reach to the heart; The song of the baritone--well, it is art. The flute and the lute in gavotte--the guitar In soft serenade--how entrancing they are! But to all the mad millions Who dance at cotillons There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch Of the ice in the punch.
So here's to the recipe, ancient in Spain, And here's to the basket of cobwebbed champagne. Again to the genius who grows the sharp spice, But ten times to King Winter who furnishes ice; For to all the mad millions Who dance at cotillons There's naught like the clink and the clank and the crunch Of the ice in the punch.
She was a Beautiful, Dutiful, Grand, And rollicking queen of Bohemia, With a cheek that was Rosier, Cosier, And As soft as a lily, and creamier.
She was always com- pelling me, Selling me, I Was her slave, but she treated me shamefully. She went on the Stage, was a Rage, as a-- Why-- As a page, and they spoke of her blamefully. And then in the Papers her Capers were Writ.