A fat man sat in an orchestra stall and his cheeks were wet with tears,
As he gazed at the primadonna tall, whom he hadn’t seen in years.
“Oh don’t you remember” he murmured low “that Spring in Montparnasse,
When hand in hand we used to go to our nightly singing class.
Ah me those days so gay and glad, so full of hope and cheer.
And that little super that we had of tinned sardines and beer.
When you looked so like a little queen with your proud and haughty air,
That I took from the box the last sardine and I twined it in your hair.”
Alas I am only a stockbroker now while you are high and great,
The laurels of fame adorn your brow while on you Princes wait.
And as I sit so sadly here and list to your thrilling tones,
You cannot remember I sadly fear if my name is Smith or jones.
Yet Oh those days of long ago, when I had scarce a sou.
And as my bitter tears down flow I think again of you.
And once again I seem to see that mad of sweet sixteen,
Within whose tresses tenderly I twined that bright sardine.
Oh that sardine in your hair, I can see it shining there,
As I took it from its box, And I twined it in your locks.
Silver sardine in your hair. Like a jewel rich and rare,
Oh that little silver sardine in your hair.