Still in London now you'll find me,
Still detained against my will;
And I wish, distinctly, mind me,
To accentuate the "_still_;"
It's a sort of consolation,
As I sit, and fume, and frown,
That the greatest botheration
Of my life is out of town.
He who used to grind "_She Wore a
Wreath of Roses_" every day,
And "Selections from _Dinorah_,"
And--"_Ta-ra-ra-Boom-de-ay_."
With his execrable smiling,
And exasperating din,
Must, I needs infer, be riling
Some one else with grind and grin.
He who seemed, in fact, delighted,
And a kiss--the fiend!--would blow,
When I got a bit excited,
And exclaimed "_Al Diavolo_!"
Who, with unabashed assurance,
Only beamed the more, and kissed,
If, incensed beyond endurance,
In his face I shook my fist.
He has earned his little outing,
This excruciating cove,
And his instrument is flouting
Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove.
For the moment I can get a
Peaceful interim, and free--
But he cherishes vendetta,
This Italian count, to me.
Yes! Perhaps, indeed, 'twere kinder,
Had he ne'er relaxed his track;
He'll return, that grinning grinder,
Reinvigorated, back!
Then, as I remarked before, a
Spell of doom for me remains,
With "Selections from _Dinorah_,"
And his other worse refrains.
* * * * *
WHY I DON'T GO OUT OF TOWN, FOR THE AUTUMN?--Because I've been pretty
well everywhere, but always _quite_ well in London.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BRIC À BRAC.
_Lady Croesus_. "OH, WHAT A SWEET TABLE! WHERE DID YOU GET IT, MY
DEAR? OH, I SEE HERE'S THE MAN'S CARD." (_Spelling the label._)
"'TABLE--LOUIS QUINZE.' LOUIS QUINZEY! WHAT A HORRID NAME! AND WHY
HASN'T HE PUT HIS ADDRESS?"]
* * * * *