To an Aged Cut-Up, II
Chloris lay off the flapper stuff;
What’s fit for Pholoë, a fluff,
Is not for Ibycus’s wife—
A woman at your time of life!
Ignore, old dame, such pleasures as
The shimmy and “the Bacchus Jazz”;
Your presence with the maidens jars—
You are the cloud that dims the stars.
Your daughter Pholoë may stay
Out nights on the Appian Way;
her love for Nothus, as you know,
Makes her as playful as a doe.
No jazz for you, no jars of wine,
No rose that blooms incarnadine.
For one thing only you are fit:
Buy some Lucerian wool—and knit!
