I’m past all succor;—slain in my pocket-book.
My little shop for hats—chic hats, oddities—
Is shut as tight as Juliet Capulet’s tomb.
“Bad times” has stood me up against the wall:
“Bad times” in Uhlan gear, takes certain aim.
(And firing squads have always stone cold eyes.)
All winter long, I’ve peeped out on the street,
To watch my little customers go by
In conscious rectitude and home-made hats;
Home-made to noble ends!