TO M’LLE BOHEMIA.
It were not well if long you tarried
Here in my “Bungalow,”
For I’m a man sedate and married;—
Pick up your skirts and go.
But stay, I’ll smoke another pipe.
Give you a cigarette?
Well, yes, for lips are cherry-ripe
And with honey dew are wet.
Are you, my dear, the Yellow Girl
Of all our author folks,
At whom we decent people hurl
Anathemas—and jokes?
You are a poem or a song—
A wicked one, they say—
A bit of color thrown along
A drab old world and gray.
And every well-turned ankle, dear,
Is joy to all the earth,
Except to us good folks who fear
The smile or dance of mirth.
But ’twere not well if long you tarried
Here in my den, you know,
For I’m a man sedate and married;—
Pick up your skirts and go.
Waitman Barbe.