Must, I needs infer, be riling
Some one else with grind and grin.

He who seemed, in fact, delighted,
And a kiss--the fiend!--would blow,
When I got a bit excited,
And exclaimed "_Al Diavolo_!"
Who, with unabashed assurance,
Only beamed the more, and kissed,
If, incensed beyond endurance,
In his face I shook my fist.

He has earned his little outing,
This excruciating cove,
And his instrument is flouting
Bath, or Scarborough, or Hove.
For the moment I can get a
Peaceful interim, and free--
But he cherishes vendetta,
This Italian count, to me.

Yes! Perhaps, indeed, 'twere kinder,
Had he ne'er relaxed his track;
He'll return, that grinning grinder,
Reinvigorated, back!
Then, as I remarked before, a
Spell of doom for me remains,
With "Selections from _Dinorah_,"
And his other worse refrains.