A SONG OF SPRING.
Oh, painters, you who always "come
Before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March"—till May—with some
Atrocious smell of paint, and make
The streets in such a shocking state, you
Are quite a nuisance—how I hate you!
How can I wear in peace a neat,
Silk hat, and coat of decent black,
When, passing you in any street,
Your paint may tumble on my back,
Or I may smash, which might be sadder,
My hat against your sloping ladder?
How can the spring delight my mind,
How can I like the budding trees,
The butterflies of any kind?
A Painted Lady could not please
In any way the mental man,
Were I a painted gentleman.
How can I like the balmy air,
How dream of violets in bloom,
When paint-pots swing aloft and scare
With visions of impending doom?
I'm mad and hot—quite crimson madder—
With dodging each successive ladder.