Twelve fleeting years ago my Myrt, 
(Ehu fugaces! maybe more)
I wrote of the directoire skirt 
You wore.

Ten years ago, Myrtilla mine, 
The hobble skirt engaged my pen. 
That was, I calculate, in Nine- 
Teen Ten.

The polo coat, the feathered lid, 
The phony furs of yesterfall, 
The current shoe--I tried to kid 
Them all.

Vain every vitriolic bit, 
Silly all my sulphuric song. 
Rube Goldberg said a bookful; it 
'S all wrong.

Bitter the words I used to fling 
But you, despite my angriest Note, 
Were never swayed by anything 
I wrote.

So I surrender. I am beat. 
And, though the admission rather girds, 
In any garb you're just to sweet 
For words.