XX
Yes, there are other phases, dear!
Here is a pocket-book, and here
Lies a wee letter. Floral thyrse?
Divine-tipped narthex of the pine,
Or morphia’s deceitful wine?
The French is ill, the spelling worse !—
But this is horrible! This, me?
The upholder of propriety,
Who actually proposed to form
A Club to shield us from the swarm
Of common people of no class
Who throng the Quartier Montparnasse!
I wear a collar: loudly shout
That folk are pigs that go without,—
And here you find me up a tree
To make my concierge blush for me !
A girl ‘“‘uncombed, so badly dressed,
So rudely mannered—and the rest ;
Not at all proper. Fie! away!
What would your lady mother say ?”
45