You’ve rested on highly-oiled stairways
Too often, when sweet eyes were bright.
And somebody’s ball dress—not Nellie’s—
Flowed ’round you in rivers of white.
There’s a reprobate looseness about you;
Should I wear you to-night, I believe,
As I come with my bride from the altar,
You’d laugh in your wicked old sleeve,
When you felt there the tremulous pressure
Of her hand, in its delicate glove,