And I fear I couldn't tell Jim Crow from strains by Meyerbeer;
And once I made a blunder when the band began to tune,
And asked what Costa was about, to start them off so soon.
The fact is—music bores one, but what is one to do?
It's very clear that one must try to get one's evenings through;
And so I somehow find myself professing vast delight,
And shouting "brava Grisi!"—yes—every Opera night.
I'm got up to perfection. In all that dandy place,
There's no cravat so faultless—no shirt so gay with lace;
My gibus hat—my shiny boots, there's none who see forget.