His portrait hung upon the wall.
Oh how at us he used to stare.
Each Sunday when I made my call! —
And when one day it wasn’t there,
Quite quick I seemed to understand
The light was green to hold her hand.
Her eyes were amorously lit;
I knew she wouldn’t mind at all.
Yet what I did was sit and sit
Seeing that blankness on the wall . . .
Horatio had a gentle face,–
How would my mug look in his place?
That oblong of wall-paper wan!
And while she prattled prettily
I sensed the red light going on,
So I refused a cup of tea,
And took my gold-topped cane and hat–
My going seemed to leave her flat.
Horatio was a decent guy,
And when she ravished from her heart
A damsite better man than I,
She seemed to me,–well, just a tart:
Her lack of tact I can’t explain.
His picture,–is it hung again?