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As they sat sipping their glasses in the courtyard
Of the Hotel de la Tigresse Verte,
With their silk-swathed ankles softly kissing,
They were certain that they had forever
Imprisoned fickleness in the vodka--
They knew they had found the ultimate pulse of love.


Story upon story, the dark windows whispered down
To them from above, and over the roof's edge
Danced a grey moon.


The woman pressed her chicken-skin fan against her breast
And through her ran trepidant mutinies of desire
With treacheries of emotion. Her voice vapoured:
"In which room shall it be tonight, darling?"
His eyes swept the broad facade, the windows,
Tier upon tier, and his lips were regnant:
"In every room, my beloved!"


I am kissing your wayward feet--
The rumours of flight are broken,
Your hands are a dear pale token.
I adore you to touch me, sweet,
And now are the frail vows spoken.


It is bravely the words are said,
Faith is a flash on our faces--
We mock as the mummer traces
The dawn when the month is dead,
Loyalty mussed like your laces.