O siren of tresses peroxide,
And heart that is hard as a flint,
Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed,
That light at the mark of the mint,
Ears only for jingle of joybells,
A conscience as light as a cork —
You are wedded to follies and foibles,
My Lady New York.
True, you have ( not enough, tho’, to hurt you )
Your moods and your manners austere;
You have visions and vapors of virtue,
And “reform” for a time has your ear;
But of chaste Puritanic embraces
You soon have enough and to spare,
And then you kick over the traces,
And virtue forswear.
So go it, milady! Foot fleetly
The paths that are primrose and gay;
Abandon your fancy completely
To follies and fads of the day.
“Reform” is a something that throttles
The joys of the pace that's intense —
Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles,
And ding the expense!