No. I.—DISORGANISED.
Still in London now you'll find me,
Still detained against my will;
And I wish, distinctly, mind me,
To accentuate the "still;"
It's a sort of consolation,
As I sit, and fume, and frown,
That the greatest botheration
Of my life is out of town.
He who used to grind "She Wore a
Wreath of Roses" every day,
And "Selections from Dinorah,"
And—"Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay."
With his execrable smiling,
And exasperating din,
Must, I needs infer, be riling
Some one else with grind and grin.
He who seemed, in fact, delighted,
And a kiss—the fiend!—would blow,
When I got a bit excited,
And exclaimed "Al Diavolo!"
Who, with unabashed assurance,
Only beamed the more, and kissed,
If, incensed beyond endurance,
In his face I shook my fist.
He has earned his little outing,
This excruciating cove,
And his instrument is flouting
Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove.
For the moment I can get a
Peaceful interim, and free—
But he cherishes vendetta,
This Italian count, to me.
Yes! Perhaps, indeed, 'twere kinder,
Had he ne'er relaxed his track;
He'll return, that grinning grinder,
Reinvigorated, back!
Then, as I remarked before, a
Spell of doom for me remains,
With "Selections from Dinorah,"
And his other worse refrains.
WHY I DON'T GO OUT OF TOWN, FOR THE AUTUMN?—Because I've been pretty well everywhere, but always quite well in London.
