Permit me, madame, to declare

That I never will compare

Eyes of yours to Starlight cold,

Or your locks to Sunlight’s gold,

Or your lips, I’d have you know,

To the crimson Jacqueminot.

Stuff like that’s all very fine

When you get so much a line;

Since I don’t, I scorn to tell

Flattering lies. I like too well

Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot

To flatter them, I’d have you know.