That those will all be mine.
Alone on my father’s balcony,
Far, far, from fashion’s warning,
I’m happier far with my pickled limes,
At two o’clock in the morning.
Rom. Mercutio, it’s really getting late:
You know that your mamma for you will wait;
You’d better go.
Mer. Oh, no! I thank you, chum!
My ma will look for me when I’m to hum.