The poem
My tangoing seemed to delight her; With me it was love at first sight. I mentioned That I was a writer: She asked me: "What is it you write?" "Oh, only best-sellers," I told her. Their titles? . . . She shook her blonde head; The atmosphere seemed to grow colder: Not one of my books had she read.
Oh, she was a beauty ensnaring, And I was an author of note; But little I saw she'd be caring If never a novel I wrote. Alas for the caprice of Cupid! Alack for the phantom of Fame! I thought her just homely and stupid: She didn't know even my name.
I saw her a score of years after; She gushed as I took off my hat; But inwardly loud was my laughter, For she was enormously fat. Thank heaven I'd not made that error; I saw Love drive off in a hearse; But I too retreated in terror . . . She started to quote me my verse.