Petite Madame, your smiling face Serenely scorns the commonplace, And you, Monsieur, your bow is quite The fine quintessence of polite! In seventeen seventy you showed Your garments as the latest mode, -- Panniers and puffs and fine plumed hat, Buckles and bows and lace cravat -- But he who made you never guessed That Time, who loves a sorry jest, Destroying kings and monarchies, Would spare you, gay futilities. How many a timely circumstance Has saved you from the swift mischance Which would have left your pieces scattered, And all your china graces shattered! The busy housewife, in a fluster, -- A maid's far flung, impetous duster, -- Twixt you and these still intervenes The god of foolish figurines. @3I shrug, but ruefully. Alas. When I, and all of mine, shall pass. Still in the best ceramic style Monsieur shall bow, Madame shall smile!@1 |