The Passionate Poet

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

LADY, Temperamental Lady, Never, since the world was young, In the years B. C., or A. D., In the songs by Sappho sung, When the Earth was in its coli-age Never lived or loved a dame Who could boast of half the voltage Which your lambent eyes proclaim.

WHEREFORE I, your true transmitter, Scan'd my Roget's every line, Seeking adjectives to fit a Hyper-Thermal heart, like thine. Vainly—yes, for though I dallied Long o'er synonyms for "fire", F,very one seem'd, cold. and. pallid, Once "tried over" on my lyre.

SUDDENLY, as though it hovered Ready, waiting for my pen, In the paper I discovered I odide-of-Nitrogen! Bless the scientist who found it! (Quite by hazard, I assume) For it blows-up all around it If but tickled with a plume.

BUT, though this sublime invention Fits you to T—N—T, You have nothing, I might mention, Nothing, Lady dear, on me! For, as author of this ode, dear, I can really, truly say, I'm so tickled I explode, dear When you merely glance my way.