Truth
Permit me, madame, to declare
That I never will compare
Eyes of yours to Starlight cold,
Or your locks to Sunlight’s gold,
Or your lips, I’d have you know,
To the crimson Jacqueminot.
Stuff like that’s all very fine
When you get so much a line;
Since I don’t, I scorn to tell
Flattering lies. I like too well
Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot
To flatter them, I’d have you know.