Horatio
His portrait hung upon the wall.
Oh how at us he used to stare.
Each Sunday when I made my call! —
And when one day it wasn’t there,
Quite quick I seemed to understand
The light was green to hold her hand.
Her eyes were amorously lit;
I knew she wouldn’t mind at all.
Yet what I did was sit and sit
Seeing that blankness on the wall . . .
Horatio had a gentle face,—
How would my mug look in his place?
That oblong of wall—paper wan!
And while she prattled prettily
I sensed the red light going on,
So I refused a cup of tea,
And took my gold—topped cane and hat—
My going seemed to leave her flat.
Horatio was a decent guy,
And when she ravished from her heart
A damsite better man than I,
She seemed to me,—well, just a tart:
Her lack of tact I can’t explain.
His picture,—is it hung again?
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