La Belle Trout Sans Merci
by Mr. V. Briceland
(an infatuated admirer)

i.

Say, what's wrong, you wretched chap,
Alone and drinking bathtub gin?
The bar is empty as the streets,
There's no more vin.

ii.

Say, what's wrong, you wretched chap,
Your hair's got an unhealthy gleam.
The jazz musicians have gone home.
Here's Brylcreem.

iii.

I see some lipstick on your cheek,
A shade of coral, vermillion too.
Hold on, old bean . . . just let me wipe off. . . .
What's that goo?

iv.

I met a lady at the Ritz
So beautiful, a fashion plate.
Her hair was set, her face was rouged,
And she watched what she ate.

v.

I saw her in her roaring Rolls
Resplendent in kingfisher blue.
A vision of both the social page
And fashion, too.

vi.

I rushed to greet her, near her side.
Her aura had a light that shone.
I stepped upon her graceful foot-
She made a moan.

vii.

She called her driver, a big brute
Who tossed me easily in the street
"I'm sorry!" I did cry in vain,
"About your feet!"

viii.

She disappeared without a look,
Deep into the opera house
I wandered 'lone into the night.
I felt a louse.

ix.

I went back home into my room
And there I dream'd, no question
The strangest dream I ever dream'd.
('Twas indigestion.)

x.

Wealthy magnates, social queens,
With one dread voice in chorus they all
Said loud, "La Belle Trout sans merci
Has you in thrall!"

xi.

I saw their flutes of fine champagne
Lifted to dire lips of rust;
And I awoke. To my dismay,
My hair was mussed.

xii.

This is why I, wretched chap,
Sit here drinking bathtub gin,
Though here is empty as the streets
And there's no more vin.