Oh! for her leather-like, her nauseating omelette,
Oh! for her cutlets and potatoes black as ink!
Oft, of necessity, would I the Buttons, Tommy, let
Batten on luxuries that bothered him, I think.
And she would mingle, would that woman who did that to me,
Proofs incontestable with everything I ate,
Whereby the veriest beginner of anatomy
Knew that she must be in complexion a brunette.
Wild were her sauces, like herself, devoid of reasoning;
Still I have never been indubitably clear,