THE BALLAD
OF SHOW SUNDAY

HOW do you do? And are all these yours?
What a delightful studio.
 (Why are artists such dreadful bores?)
Really, it’s charming, don’t you know.
Mark that sunset’s fiery glow,
Melting into a subtle grey.
What do you call it? ‘Evening?’ Oh.
(Couldn’t we manage to slip away?)

Sweetly pretty, that rural scene.
(Who’s that creature who’s smiling so?
Heavens, it’s Mrs. Slowbore-Green!
What have I done to deserve this blow?
Why did I come to this tiresome show?
Give her her head, and she’ll talk all day.
Where can I hide till she has to go?
Couldn’t we manage to slip away?)

‘Portrait of Binks, M.P.’ How nice!
Really, it’s charming, don’t you know.
(There now, I’ve been and said that twice.)
‘Baby’s kitten,’ ‘Sleep in the snow,’
‘Paul P. Splosh, of St. Louis, Mo.,’
‘Summer sunshine’—what can I say?
Really, it’s–er–charming, don’t you know:
(Couldn’t we manage to slip away?)

L’ENVOI.

Fashion, strange are thy laws, I trow:
Strange—but laws which we must obey.
Every year comes the picture-show—
(Couldn’t we manage to slip away?)