And pokey, and chokey, and black as my hat.
As wooer he's dull, for his breath smells of sulphur;
Asphyxia incarnate, and horrid at that!
You _cannot_ see beauty in one who's so sooty,
So dusty, and dingy, and dismal, and dark.
He's feeble and footy; 'tis plainly your duty
To "chuck" the Old Flame, and take on the Young Spark.
A Cyclops for lover, no doubt you discover,
My dear Lady LONDON, is not _comme il faut_;
If I do not woo you the sunny earth over.
At least I lend light to love-making below.

He's just like old Pluto, Persephone's prigger;
_You_'ll follow Apollo the Younger--that's me!
He's sombre as Styx, and as black as a nigger.
_His_ lady-love, LONDON! Bah! Fiddle-de-dee!

His murky monopoly, Madam, is ended.
Come down, my dear love, to my subterrene hall!
I think you'll admit it is sparkling and splendid,
As clean as a palace, not black as a pall.
Electrical traction with sheer stupefaction
Strikes Steam, the old buffer, and spoils his small game.
You're off with the old Love, so try the new bold Love,
And let the Young Spark supersede the Old Flame.

[_Carries her off in triumph._

* * * * *