RETROSPECT
She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair,
And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!”
There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye,
And the savor of health as she passes you by.
Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true,
And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue.
I shall ever recall, if I live to four score,
The impress she made on me, the old bore,
As she sat on the stairs one night long ago,