By P.G.Wodehouse
Joan, with an air of settled gloom
Upon my mobile face,
I eye you dancing round the room,
A miracle of grace.
I note your partner smile with glee
While whirling you about.
Alas! such joys are not for me,
For I’m a sitter-out.
I might have learned in days gone by
The waltz its graceful swing,
Had I consented but to try.
But did I ? No such thing.
Extraneous aid, though kindly lent,
Consistently I’d flout.
And mark the dreadful punishment,
I’m now a sitter-out.
The scales have fallen from my eyes,
I see the vivid truth;
Fully at last I realise
The folly of my youth.
I might have learned when young and slim,
And now I’m old and stout,
I’m only fit in wind and limb
To be a sitter-out.
To watch my fellow-men and feel
That they’re enjoying life
Should be enough the wound to heal,
And blunt Remorse’s knife.
I ought to be content, I know;
I should be soothed, no doubt;
But still at times one finds it slow
To be a sitter-out.
Oh, spare, I beg, a single glance,
Devotion’s only fee;
Eschew for once the mazy dance,
And come and talk to me.
Ah, shun me not; turn not away
With irritated pout,
But comfort for a space, I pray,
A luckless sitter-out.
Whatever subject’s to your mind
I’ll probe it with a will;
Yea, even, if you feel inclined,
Talk Education Bill.
I’ll range from China to Peru
I’ll skim from golf to gout;
My brain shall be ransacked for you
When we are sitting-out.