With my silver-topped cane, and my boots (patent leather),
My hat polished smoothly, a gloss on my hair,
Yes, I think I shall charm her, and as to the weather,
I am safe--the barometer points to "Set Fair."
So I'm off--why, what's that? Yes, by Jove, there's a sputter
Of rain on the pavement!--the sunshine retires;
And I wish, oh, I wish that my tongue dared to utter
The thoughts that this changeable weather inspires.
Back, back to my rooms; I am drenched and disgusted;
In thick boots and an ulster I'll tempt it again;
And accurst be the hour when I foolishly trusted
The barometer's index, which now points to "Rain."
Well, I'll trudge it on foot with umbrella and "bowler,"--
My STELLA thinks more of a man than his dress.
I can buy her some bonbons or gloves to console her.
Though I'm rigged like a navvy, she'll love me no less.
Let the showers pour down, I am dressed to defy them--
Bad luck to the rain, why, it's passing away!
The streets are quite gay with the sunshine to dry them.
Well, there, I give up, and retire for the day!
* * * * *
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