'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare,
With the footlights brightly burning.
His wired gardenia graced his breast,
And sodden in scent one found him,
As he sat there sucking his stick with zest,
With his three-inch collar around him.
A deep red groove in his puffy throat,
That collar's starched edge was flaying;
And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote,
Were the clocks of his hose displaying.