THE Cafe Molineau is where
A dainty little minx
Serves God and man as best she can
By serving meats and drinks.
Oh, such an air the creature has,
And such a pretty face!
I took delight that autumn night
In hanging round the place.
I know but very little French
( I have not long been here );
But when she spoke, her meaning broke
Full sweetly on my ear.
Then, too, she seemed to understand
Whatever I'd to say,
Though most I knew was “oony poo,”
“Bong zhoor,” and “see voo play.”
The female wit is always quick,
And of all womankind
‘ Tis here in France that you, perchance,
The keenest wits shall find;
And here you'll find that subtle gift,
That rare, distinctive touch,
Combined with grace of form and face,
That glads men overmuch.
“Our girls at home,” I mused aloud,
“Lack either that or this;
They do n't combine the arts divine
As does the Gallic miss.
Far be it from me to malign
Our belles across the sea,
And yet I'll swear none can compare
With this ideal She.”
And then I praised her dainty foot
In very awful French,
And parleyvood in guileful mood
Until the saucy wench
Tossed back her haughty auburn head,
And froze me with disdain:
“There are on me no flies,” said she,
“For I come from Bangor, Maine!”