An Ultimatum to Myrtilla
Ah, Myrtilla mine, you said–
And your tone was earnest, very–
You would never deck your head
With this vernal millinery.
Myrt, to mince no words, you lied;
Oh, that I should live to know it!
You that are my nearly-bride;
I that am your nearly-poet!
For I saw the awful lid
You had on at 10 this morning;
Myrt, it was a merrywid,
Spite of my decisive warning.
Still, I can forgive you that;
Though the thing look ne’er so silly;
I will overlook the hat
If you promise this, Myrtillie:
Wear your lacebelows and fluffs;
Wear the awfullest creations–
But-omit the stylish puffs
And the vogueish transformations.
Myrt, if you inflate your hair
I shall-well-excoriate you,
And, I positively swear,
Loathe, despise, detest, and hate you.
