[FOsen]

I thought I’d slip into the garden, my bard,
From a casement window high,
Shinny down the large pine and then swing from a vine,
While I warbled your favorite cry.

But my scanty chemise has got lost in the trees,
And I sit on this branch like a loon;
Now the planet of love isn’t all that’s above,
Shining forth like the perishing moon.

Since the least wayward glance from those leaving the dance
Would be certain to ruin my standing,
I should give you a call to come fetch me a shawl
And prevent my good name from crash-landing.

But speaking of tags, mine will soon be in rags,
And I can’t shout out yours, to come save it,
For I now realize—Oh, damn both of your eyes—
Neither you nor Lord Alfred once gave it!

Frank