I’ve run with you the scale from Heav’n to Hell.
Paris, I love you still… good-by, good-by.
Thus it all ends–unhappily, alas!
It’s time to sleep, and now… blow out the gas.…
Now there's that little midinette
Who goes to work each morning daily;
I choose to call her Blithe Babette,
Because she’s always humming gaily;
And though the Goddess “Comme-il-faut”
May look on her with prim expression,
It’s Pagan Paris where, you know,
The queen of virtues is Discretion.
Room 6
THE LITTLE WORKGIRL
Three gentlemen live close beside me–
A painter of pictures bizarre,
A poet whose virtues might guide me,
A singer who plays the guitar;
And there on my lintel is Cupid;
I leave my door open, and yet
These gentlemen, aren't they stupid!
They never make love to Babette.
I go to the shop every morning;
I work with my needle and thread;
Silk, satin and velvet adorning,
