His wit is not so pointed as his boots,
Bright with the polish which his manners lack,
Nor yet so chaste as those astounding suits
Which deck his shrunken limbs and padded back.
His stays are always, he is often, "tight,"
His collar, like his birth, is sans reproche;
He seldom does a thing because it's right,
But, on the other hand, is never gauche.
The Music Hall hath charms to soothe his breast,
But tries in vain to tinge his pallid cheek;