BLACKFRIARS TO SLOANE SQUARE.
The man who got in at Blackfriars
Was smoking the foulest of briars,
But it went out all right—
Could I give him a light?—
Hadn't got one—well, all men are liars.
I've frequently noticed the Temple
Is a place there are not enough rhymes to;
And that's why I've made
This verse somewhat blank,
And rather disregarded the metre.
How do you pronounce Charing Cross?
It's a point where I'm quite at a loss.
Some people, of course,
Would rhyme it with "horse,"
But I always rhyme it with "hoss."
A woman at Westminster Bridge
Had got just a speck on the ridge
Of her Romanesque nose.
"It's a black, I suppose,"
She observed. Then it flew—'twas a midge.
One man from the Park of St. James,
Had really the loftiest aims;
In the hat-rack he sat,
Used my hair as a mat,
And when I demurred called me names.
I bought from the stall at Victoria
A horrible sixpenny story, a
Book of a kind
It pained me to find
For sale at our English emporia.
I found when I got to Sloane Square
That my ticket was gone; my despair
Was awful to see,
Till at last to my glee
I looked in my hat—it was there!