  I IN CHLORIN Dear Mrs. Ibycus, accept a little sound advice, Your manners and your speech are over-bold; To chase around the sporty way you do is far from nice; Believe me, darling, you are growing old. Now PholoË may fool around (she dances like a doe!) A dÉbutante has got to think of men; But you were twenty-seven over thirty years ago— You ought to be asleep at half-past ten. O Chloris, cut the ragging and the roses and the rum— Delete the drink, or better, chop the booze! Go buy a skein of yarn and make the knitting needles hum, And imitate the art of Sister Suse. II Chloris, lay off the flapper stuff; What's fit for PholoË, a fluff, Is not for Ibycus's wife— A woman at your time of life! Ignore, old dame, such pleasures as The shimmy and "the Bacchus Jazz"; Your presence with the maidens jars— You are the cloud that dims the stars. Your daughter PholoË may stay Out nights upon the Appian Way; Her love for Nothus, as you know, Makes her as playful as a doe. No jazz for you, no jars of wine, No rose that blooms incarnadine. For one thing only are you fit: Buy some Lucerian wool—and knit! |
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