A Demi-French Octave.
(Picked up in a Dressing-room.)
My razor, you're a true raseur,
That is, you bore me badly!
You're blunt, you gash—de tout mon cœur
I bless you wildly, madly!
Vraiment, c'est vous qu' j'ai en horreur
Each morn on rising sadly;
Were't not that shaving's de rigueur,
In turn I'd cut you gladly!