Or what Young Devils they all are,
Or Scarlet Dames, or the First Star,
Or South-Sea-Jazz-Hounds sorrowing,
It would be quite another thing:
But, Bird, here they come mousing round
On my suburban, sacred ground,
And see my happiness—it's flat,
You wretched Bird, they'll sing of that!
They'll hymn my Happy Hearth, and later
The joys of my Refrigerator,