Why, LOMBROSO would despise you,
Though he is so rude. These "lies" you
Freely write make folks surmise you
An impostor,
Not the lady. You've not "licked" her.
(Slang to suit you) though you're VICTOR.
Since you stoop to contradict her
Like a coster.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH'S SHOOTING-PARTY.]
* * * * *
SONGS OUT OF SEASON.--MY CARETAKER.
[Illustration]
A mysterious thing
For our commonplace day,
Is the lady I sing
In the following lay.
While I'm shooting the grouse,
Or enjoying the sea,
She takes care of my house
For a nominal fee.
For ten shillings a-week
Does this wonderful woman
Undertake, so to speak,
An existence inhuman.
Like their dwellings the rabbits
Deep in darkling retreats,
This weird widow inhabits
Subterranean seats.
What with humour "contrary,"
Or ironic despair,
She denominates "airey"--
From its absence of air!
It would give _me_ the blues
Household gods to uphold
With a _Lloyd's Weekly News_
Of some fifty days old.
In a Stygian gloom,
Far from sun and ozone,
She sits locked in her room,
Uncompanioned, alone.
At a knock, at a call
How she shivers and starts!
She's "that nervous"--and "Hall
Of 'er fambly 'as 'earts.
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