O, stiffened upper lipped man
Brow bent with a pasted tan
Lend me your ear horn this night
And let my tale take on flight
It was a winter’s night so
More than forty years ago
When with walking stick in hand
And top coat and boots remand
I donned a gentleman’s airs
Pretender of noble cares
A man with nary a quarter
Working for tips a porter
Now a patron of the arts
Dashing suit for married tarts
So long one step I remain
Beyond the law and the chain
I stroll into the lobby
Man in search of his hobby
And take my regular spot
Side piano and teapot
The horsey gal tapping tunes
Of soft leisured afternoons
Melodies for petticoats
Swooning o’re old lovers notes
I’ll have my Earl Grey with pomp
I say to the man, Beauchamp
A server from a French farm
Too fey to be of much harm
He swishes away from me
Leaves me to my repartee
My discussion in my head
Of pastels and buttered bread
Till a woman approaches
And nods off my reproaches
A woman hot on her hunt
Myself the prey for her cunt
O, I hate the forward dame
Buxom blonds are all the same
Hard luck tales from Omaha
My one quarter they will gnaw
But worst of all no high class
No more than an Irish lass
Refrains from gin for whiskey
And spits out poems so frisky
Have I seen you somewhere man?
She asks as loud as a fan
I doubt you have seen my crow
I frequent no bordello
So run along missy dear
Lend some other man your tear
But she simply smiles the more
My protests her happy chore
And rubs up my inner leg
Like she’s oiling Ahab’s peg
I’m the spice in your head lice
She whispers ever so nice
More than dandruff on your sleeve
Girl from whom there’s no reprieve
All my charms so much deserved
Grandiloquently reserved
So much high talk from this sass
A thesaurus in her ass
More than I should have to bear
This dame’s silly words so fair
So I wave over Beauchamp
Escort out this wordsmith tromp
Leave me to my fiddle dee
While I sip my seasoned tea
The server looks at me blank
Like a deer before a tank
There’s no woman to escort
Sir, you’re alone with your port
I look down with much dismay
Seems I’ve finished my Earl Grey
And moved on to my night cap
One more row before I snap
Ah, tis appears to be so
I say just a bit too slow
Gentlemen must sit alone
When buttering their own scone
So put this night on my tab
And help me to fetch a cab
Sir, the boss man begs me ask
When your tab will be your task
For your credit is passed due
Like fowl droppings in our stew
Tis be paid before the spring
Man’s as good as his last fling
As I take my leave from there
I can feel her cold hard stare
Buxom blond from Omaha
Closer still than my old saw
Harlot living in my soul
Reads my life as if a scroll
A liar bred from cheap blush
Charmer with a hint of lush
Warning that my well-hewn life
Will be burnt in coals of strife
If I’m costumed in conceits
I’ll burn crisp with my receipts
From that night on I decree
Never again seasoned tea
I shall live within my means
A man measured by his seams
And yet I must now confess
There are times I miss the dress
The top coats and buckled boots
The dandy sprung from fine roots
When the winter gets too cold
I long once more to be bold
Grab the horns of yesteryear
And ride her without a seer
For chastity warms the heart
But nothing kicks like a tart
And a cucumber on white
Sprinkled with a dose of spite
A toast to seasoned Earl Grey
And the damsels I shall lay
A life of dereliction
But worthy of fine diction
