That I should find a priceless girl, too beautiful for man.
They told me of thy cherry cheeks, thy hair of night-dark sable,
And how you squatted on the floor—the Japanese for table;
They gushed about your merry ways, your manners without flaw,
In thee, the girl idealised, you little fraud, we saw.
But now in wind-swept bleak Japan as our sore throats we muffle,
We see thy senseless pudding face and irritating shuffle;
As you go slopping thro' the streets of your foul-smelling city,
You're far too common to be rare, too brainless to be witty.
Your senseless, everlasting grin, your squatting monkey shape,