Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.
My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I wore
Had creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store.
I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene;
I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.
She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat,
His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat;
I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen;
She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!
It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all: