FORTY DAYS
SHE'S keeping her Lent quite strictly
With her suddenly staid little ways;
"Get thee behind me, Satan," she cries,
"And stay there—forty days!"
With her suddenly staid little ways;
"Get thee behind me, Satan," she cries,
"And stay there—forty days!"
At church each morn and evening
She hardly lifts her lashes,
And, but for the hue, you'd take her rouge
For sprinkle of penitent ashes.
She hardly lifts her lashes,
And, but for the hue, you'd take her rouge
For sprinkle of penitent ashes.
She kneels *neath the stained glass window
While the organ notes are humming
And looks like a saint—and wonders if
Her sackcloth is becoming.
While the organ notes are humming
And looks like a saint—and wonders if
Her sackcloth is becoming.
For sackcloth may be quite lovely
If only 'tis worn aright
And even if one is aping the prudes
One needn't be quite a fright.
If only 'tis worn aright
And even if one is aping the prudes
One needn't be quite a fright.
She's keeping her Lent; gainst bonbons
And dancing she's put up the bar:
"Get thee behind me, Satan," she cries,
"But—pray don't get very far."
And dancing she's put up the bar:
"Get thee behind me, Satan," she cries,
"But—pray don't get very far."