Dreaming of the things the folks in meeting said.
“Love ye one another,” ministers recite;
Bless me, DON’T we do it—sparking Sunday night?
One arm with gentle pressure lingers round her waist,
You squeeze her dimpled hand, her pouting lips you taste,
She freely slaps your face, but more in love than spite;
Oh, thunder! ain’t it pleasant—sparking Sunday night?
But hark! the clock is striking; it is two o’clock, I snum,
As sure as I’m a sinner, the time to go has COME.
You ask, with spiteful accents, if “that old clock is right!”