Where soot-flakes all, and blue-flies blow, Margarina!
But every night at my snug tea, Margarina!
Over my toast I muse on thee, Margarina!
I sniff that smell, I see that dab,
That greasy, grimy, marble slab.
And thou art still the same I know,
The slum's strange love, the slum's strange love.
The poor man's "Butter," there on show! Margarina!
Mrs. Ram, who had been listening to a conversation among golf-players, and now flatters herself on knowing something about the game, observed—"I suppose, in the Season, instead of Five-o'clock Teas, the fashion at Hurlingham and those places will be to have Golf Teas." She didn't know that it was spelt 'Tees.'