This cholera-morbus blue!
The patchouli whispers: 'She's near, she's near!'
And her musk-drops say: ''Tis true!'
And the creak of her slippers, I hear, I hear,
They're the colour of liquid glue.
"She is coming, my bilious sweet;
I can see her tawny head;
Her footsteps are far from fleet,
She's tied back till she scarce can tread;
But yet shall her face yours meet,