Oh, painters, you who always "come
Before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March"--till May--with some
Atrocious smell of paint, and make
The streets in such a shocking state, you
Are quite a nuisance--how I hate you!
How can I wear in peace a neat,
Silk hat, and coat of decent black,
When, passing you in any street,
Your paint may tumble on my back,
Or I may smash, which might be sadder,
My hat against your sloping ladder?
How can the spring delight my mind,
How can I like the budding trees,
The butterflies of any kind?
A Painted Lady could not please
In any way the mental man,
Were I a painted gentleman.
How can I like the balmy air,
How dream of violets in bloom,
When paint-pots swing aloft and scare
With visions of impending doom?
I'm mad and hot--quite crimson madder--
With dodging each successive ladder.
* * * * *