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Show BACCHANALIA. ,'TiS morn. Your crumpled pillow doth exhale Odors of midnight revelry and stale Cigars and stout. Two damaged lobster claws Adorn the spot where once Her photo was. The dying tuberose in your evening suit Suggests a morning hack. A patent boot Hangs sadly pendent from the gasoller; Last night's events are but a mental smear. How got you home? Where left your trusty pal? What of the unconnected interval? Oh! dimly groping brain, where spectres pass Of Flossies, p'leacemen, cabs and broken glass I Is this your head that on the pillow lies, Or Santos Dumont'd latest enterprise? The time? Eleven o'clock! Ye Gods! Alack, The Boss, the offlce ledgers, and the sack. To this biirnt-umber palate who will bring Strawberries, ices, lemons anything-? The stone that rolled last night and gained no moss Yearns rabid at the dawn for Worcester sauce. What distant cry is that? What peeling chimes? What ratlcuous kid calls out the Sunday "Slimes?" Oh! tell-tale looking-glass! Oh! face forlorn! Smile once again, for it is Sunday morn. Exchange. |