Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said—
And your tone was earnest, very—
You would never deck your head
With this vernal millinery.
Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;
Oh, that I should live to know it!
You that are my nearly-bride;
I that am your nearly-poet!
For I saw the awful lid
You had on at 10 this morning;
Myrt, it was a merrywid,
Spite of my decisive warning.
Still, I can forgive you that;
Though the thing look ne'er so silly;
I will overlook the hat
If you promise this, Myrtillie:
Wear your lacebelows and fluffs;
Wear the awfullest creations—
But—omit the stylish puffs
And the vogueish transformations.
Myrt, if you inflate your hair
I shall—well—excoriate you,
And, I positively swear,
Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.
Love Gustatory
Myrtilla, I have seen you eat—
Have heard you drink, to be precise—
Your soup, and, notwithstanding, sweet,
The gurgitation wasn't nice,
I overlooked a tiny fault
Like that with just a grain of salt.
And, sweetest maid in all New York,
When all ungracefully you pierce
The toothsome oyster with your fork
I realize you're pretty fierce;
But such a feat, be't understood,
Nor Venus nor Diana could.
I've seen you hang, high in the air,
A stalk of fresh asparagus,
Guiding its succulence to where
It ought to go. I did not cuss.
You had it hot and vinaigrette,
Myrtilla, and I loved you yet.