La Belle Fille Sans Merci

(With apologies to Keats.)

O! what can ail thee, college lad,
Thy buttonhole is withering;
A beard has grown upon thy face,
And no cash rings.

I met a flapper at a dance,
Full slim—a very taunting teeze,
Her lingering smile took me by storm
In vain were pleas.

I dwelt on warmth her eyes shone forth,
And thoughts like bills gave me no rest.
The idle nothings that I'd talk
Alas! my zest.

I met her in a motor-car,
She's nothing else to do all day.
Her father's on the staff and draws
A first-rate pay.

She cut me dead—to use the phrase
That intersects our poets, lines.
Her hair once long—now half-way up
Her head entwines.

Khaki has turned her brain, it seems,
Without it she is rarely seen.
And oh!—the sadness of my life
I'm yet nineteen.

Ah! what can ail thee, college lad,
Alone and Latin-prosing.
The night has tucked the day in bed
And no birds sing.

W. E. L.

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