Today I gave a serenade to Gill;
I says, "To put it pleasant you're a screech,
Your smile would shoo the seagulls off the beach,
Your face would give Vesuvius a chill.
You're just what Mr. Shakespeare calls 'a pill
Trying to keep company with a peach.'
Now, if you want to answer with a speech,
Open your trap at once, or else lie still."

But when I handed Gill the Grip this cluster
He simply clamped his language-mill down tight,
Strangled his guff and acted rather fluster
Although I'm sure I spoke to him polite.
I guess that Mr. Gilly ain't the kind
That understands when people talk refined.