I’ll not deny my claims are indeed quite modest
against one who could wield a sure cigar
and, pausing, finger a thoughtful mustachio,
his tale in a wispy composure suspended,
then parley with a sleight of slight returns,
balancing a prodigality of figures
with a deliberate thrift of mode and measure,
leaving room for occasional asides.
Our Mozart was more than the drawing-room master;
for good taste knows more than a gritty word or two –
more than its tiresome, gentried ABC.
And talented women there’ve been who smoked cigars!
Yes, vice in a manner is virtue’s mixed meter
and propriety cuts a poor figure
in the company of those who’ve so reflected.
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