I P. M.

H E sits before me as I write,
And talks of this and that,
And all my thoughts are put to flight
By his infernal chat.
I came to write a tender rhyme
To Phyllis or to Mabel,
And chose in this retired cafe
The most secluded table.
He came before I'd time to fly,
And ere I could refuse,

Had filled the very chair that I
Was keeping for the muse!
Then came the deluge — down it came
In one unceasing pour —
Of science, crops, photography,
Religion, soups, and war.

Forsooth the flood of words that flows
From this secluded table
Will soon be great enough to swamp
A dozen towers of Babel.
And still he stays, and still the flood
Is rising as before;
The world is now a sea of words
Without a sign of shore.

. . . . .

Great Scott! He's going!
" No, must you go?
Don't tear yourself away!
What have I written? Oh, some trash —
A sort of Fairy-lay,
Of how a dreadful ogre
Caught a luckless youth one day,
And drowned him in a flood of — well,
If you must go — good day! "

ENVOY .

Phyllis — or Mabel! pray forgive —
I had to pay him out;
I'll write that tender rhyme to you
Some other day, no doubt.