Though your programme for my name had left but small room,
I somehow snatched five valses from the fire.
And I did stout supper-service for your mother,
While you wove the self-same spells o'er many another,
And I said, no doubt, the sort of things that they did,
In the shaded
Little nook beneath the palms upon the stair,
To my fair.
But I noticed, as I learned to know you better,
And you ceased to wile the victim at your feet,