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116
SIZE AND TEARS.
They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids—
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades—
"Why, Brown, my boy! You're growing stout!"
(I told you he would find me out!)
"My growth is not your business, Sir!"
"No more it is, my boy!
But if it's yours, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man whose business prospers so
Is just the sort of man to know!
"It's hardly safe, though, talking here—
I'd best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach!"—
Insult me thus because I'm stout!
I vow I'll go and call him out!
