Ever gazing, as you hang there on the little window seat,
Into flats across the way or down upon the prosy street.
Can't you rent a pianola? Can't you iron, sew, or cook?
Write a letter, bake a pudding, make a bed or read a book?
Tell me of the fascination you indubitably find
In the "High Cash Cloe's!" man's holler, in the hurdy—gurdy grind.
Are your Spanish castles blue prints? Are you waiting for a knight
To descend upon your fastness and to save you from your plight?
Lady in the blue kimono, idle, mollycoddle dame,
Does your doing nothing never make you feel the blush of shame?
As you sit and stare and ditto, not a single thing to do,
Lady in the blue kimono, lady, how I envy you!
To Alice—Sit—By—The—Hour
(Being the second idyl to an idle idol.)
Lady in the blue kimono,
May we write of you again?
Do not hand us out a "No! no!"
Do not dam the flowing pen.
Once again a poem at you
Crave we leave of you to write—
Lady idle as a statue,
Lady silent as the night!
Lady in the blue kimono,
Heavy is our heart and dumb,
Though we weep no tear nor show no
Sign of sadness, we are glum;
For that wrapper, silk or cotton,
You eternally had on—
It is gone, but not forgotten.
Still the fact is, it is gone.
Lady in the blue kimono,
Although deadly hot the day,
Don't you think—(alas! we know no
Way to put what we would say!)
Er—although your smile is pleasant,
Wondrous fair, and all that stuff—
Do you really think, at present,
It is—er—ahem—enough?
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