Now ancient as the earth, and shifting still
The Penley pantaloons for ladies' gear,
Her fine heroic waist a world too wide
For the slim corset, and her manly lips,
Tuned to the treble of a maiden's pipe,
Grasping a big cigar. Last scene of all,
The season's close and mere oblivion;
Away to Europe and the provinces;
And London left forlorn without them all,
Sans-Gêne, Santuzza, yea, sans everything.