He sits before me as I write, And talks of this and that, And all my thoughts are put to flight By his infernal chat. I came to write a tender rhyme To Phyllis or to Mabel, And chose in this retired cafÉ The most secluded table. He came before I’d time to fly, And ere I could refuse, Had filled the very chair that I Was keeping for the muse! Then came the deluge—down it came In one unceasing pour— Of science, crops, photography, Religion, soups, and war. 1.30—Forsooth the flood of words that flows From this secluded table Will soon be great enough to swamp A dozen towers of Babel. 2.30—And still he stays, and still the flood Is rising as before; 3— The world is now a sea of words 3.30— Without a sign of shore. 6— Great Scott! He’s going! “No, must you go? Don’t tear yourself away! What have I written? Oh, some trash— A sort of Fairy-lay, Of how a dreadful ogre Caught a luckless youth one day, And drowned him in a flood of—well, If you must go—good day!” ENVOY. Phyllis—or Mabel! pray forgive— I had to pay him out; I’ll write that tender rhyme to you Some other day, no doubt. |
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