And he that put her there was plainly you;
"Tino Must Go!" was writ for all to see,
Or, briefly, "T.M.G."
Whither, dear Sir, do you propose to sally?
To Switzerland's recuperative air,
To sip condensed milk in a private chalet
Or pluck the lissom chamois from his lair,
Or on the summit of a neutral Alp
Recline your crownless scalp?
Or did you ask from him you love so dearly