To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion and beauty and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,
And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee’s daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.
But goodness! what nonsense I’m writing!
(Mama says my taste still is low),
Instead of my triumphs reciting,