And combs all her front hair behind,
Not because she is proud of her forehead,
But because she's a woman of mind.
She makes me a bushel of verses,
But never a pudding or tart,
If I hint I should like one, she vows
I'm an animal merely at heart;
Though I've notic'd she spurns not the pastry,
Whene'er at a friend's we have din'd,
And has always had two plates of pudding,