beigeotter

  I go to concert, party, ball --
    What profit is in these?
  I sit alone against the wall
    And strive to look at ease.
  The incense that is mine by right
    They burn before her shrine;
  And that's because I'm seventeen
    And She is forty-nine.

  I cannot check my girlish blush,
    My color comes and goes;
  I redden to my finger-tips,
    And sometimes to my nose.
  But She is white where white should be,
    And red where red should shine.
  The blush that flies at seventeen
    Is fixed at forty-nine.

  I wish I had Her constant cheek;
    I wish that I could sing
  All sorts of funny little songs,
    Not quite the proper thing.
  I'm very gauche and very shy,
    Her jokes aren't in my line;
  And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
    While She is forty-nine.

  The young men come, the young men go
    Each pink and white and neat,
  She's older than their mothers, but
    They grovel at Her feet.
  They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels --
    None ever walk by mine;
  And that's because I'm seventeen
    And She is foty-nine.

  She rides with half a dozen men,
    (She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
  I trot along the Mall alone;
    My prettiest frocks and sashes
  Don't help to fill my programme-card,
    And vainly I repine
  From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
    Would I were forty-nine!

  She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
    And "sweet retiring maid."
  I'm always at the back, I know,
    She puts me in the shade.
  She introduces me to men,
    "Cast" lovers, I opine,
  For sixty takes to seventeen,
    Nineteen to foty-nine.

  But even She must older grow
    And end Her dancing days,
  She can't go on forever so
    At concerts, balls and plays.
  One ray of priceless hope I see
    Before my footsteps shine;
  Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
    When I am forty-nine.