To think of you in town and murmur, "This is
A likely sort of tale."
To take, without one thought of evil plotting,
Even without one last protesting kick,
Thus kindly to somnambulistic trotting—
Oh, James, old pal, it was a dirty trick;
To show the yarns I'd told of you and written
(In letters home) were not entirely swank
At very least, I think, you might have bitten
The policeman at the Bank.