We took the iron-clad wave-tub home at ten,
And as we sat conversing on the deck
A certain Hester-street spaghetti-neck
Pipes through the darkness, "Who's yer ladyfren'?"
There might have been a hoe-down there and then
(That war-ship never came so near a wreck);
The dog-eye boy got just as pale as heck
And made a duck behind the trenches, when—

Pansy boiled up and clamped me by a flip.
"Nixie the kindergarten!" murmurs she.
"Gents," I replied out loud, "Get off the ship
And walk, or else nail down that repartee.
This yard of lace I'm holding, so to speak,
Is pinned on tight—or will be in a week."