Madame Eulalie’s Rare Plums

ASK me no more: I’m sorry if you’re vexed;
I’ve seen your point and deeply sympathised.
You think it is a shame? I’m not surprised:
But, to return politely to my text,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: don’t have hysterics, pray!
Don’t wave umbrellas quite so near my head!
As Joseph has it, what I’ve said I’ve said;
I can but add, in the old familiar way,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea,
The corkscrew from its lair extract the cork;
A pickle may be hooked out with a fork
But four small words are all you’ll draw from me,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more. What answer should I give?
I might reply, discreetly. “Well, I’ll see.”
Or, rudely, thrill you with a big, big D,
And strengthen with some sulphurous adjective,
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: why raise this horrid gale?
Why—ah! they’ve gone! Next time, beyond a doubt.
My butler shall inform them that I’m out.
Thus only shall I make it sure that they’ll
Ask me no more.