For One Night Only

P. G. WODEHOUSE

I MET him in a crowd: As if with care 'twas weighted, His shapely back was bowed, His brow was corrugated. I asked him "Why so pale? What grief your soul has cankered?1 And gleaned his painful tale Over a friendly tankard.

"ONCE," the sad wight began, "I knew not what the blues I was a geiiial man, And never shirked amusement. I shot, I rode, I rinked, I trod the mazy measure: My life, to be succinct, Was one long round of pleasure.

IN those delightful days, I do not mind confessing, That, if I had a craze, It was for perfect dressing. One night—it serves to show How labor omnia vincit— I tied a perfect bow: I've not been happy since it.

I WORKED with watchful eye, With fingers swift but wary: It seemed a decent tie, But not extraordinary. But when at length I gazed, To put the final clip in, I staggered back, amazed, Ejaculating 'Rippin'!'.

OH, had I but the pen That serves the inspired poet, I'd try to picture, then, (With proper force and glow,) it. The billowy waves of white . . . The folds . . . The spick-and-span knot ... Were I a bard, I might; But, as it is, I cannot.

SUFFICE it to observe That on minute inspection It showed in every curve The hall-mark of perfection. The sort of tie which you When wrapped in sweetest sleep occasionally view: A tie to mark an epoch.

THAT night no peer I owned, I carried all before me. Society"—he moaned— "United to adore me. Whenever I passed by, Men stopped their conversation, Drank in that Perfect Tie In silent adoration.

SINCE then the striking feat (Such dreams th' ambitious male lure) I've striven to repeat: Result: completest failure. Though toiling, as I say, As much as blood and flesh 'll, The bows I tie today Are good, but nothing special.

SO now my fellow-man I shun, no matter who 'tis: As far as mortal can, I cut my social duties. I seldom eat or rest, I'm gloomy, haggard, mirthless. To one who's known the best, All other things are worthless."