MARCH
Here comes bluff March—a cross between
A Jester and a Libertine.
He loves to make the parson race
With wicked words his hat to chase;
To dye with compromising rose
The pious man's abstemious nose.
The ladies hate him, though he shows
A pretty taste for silken hose.
The smoker views him with distrust,
Shielding his last match from his gust.
But once alight—his holy joy
No blast from Heaven can destroy!
