As Boston anywhere allowed;

It was a club of wicked men—

The oldest, twelve, the youngest, ten;

They drank their soda colored green,

They talked of “Art,” and “Philistine,”

They wore buff “wescoats,” and their hair

It used to make the waiters stare!

They were so shockingly behaved

And Boston thought them so depraved,

Policemen, stationed at the door,