  It were not well if long you tarried Here in my “Bungalow,” For I’m a man sedate and married;— Pick up your skirts and go. But stay, I’ll smoke another pipe. Give you a cigarette? Well, yes, for lips are cherry-ripe And with honey dew are wet. Are you, my dear, the Yellow Girl Of all our author folks, At whom we decent people hurl Anathemas—and jokes? You are a poem or a song— A wicked one, they say— A bit of color thrown along A drab old world and gray. And every well-turned ankle, dear, Is joy to all the earth, Except to us good folks who fear The smile or dance of mirth. But ’twere not well if long you tarried Here in my den, you know, For I’m a man sedate and married;— Pick up your skirts and go. |
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