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Weary Waitress

by
 Her smile ineffably is sweet,
 Devinely she is slim;
Yet oh how weary are her feet,
 How aches her every limb!
Thank God it's near to closing time,
 --Merciful midnight chime.
Then in her mackintosh she'll go Up seven flights of stairs, And on her bed her body throw, Too tired to say her prayers; Yet not too sleepy to forget Her cheap alarm to set.
She dreams .
.
.
That lonely bank-clerk boy Who comes each day for tea,-- Oh how his eyes light up with joy Her comeliness to see! And yet he is too shy to speak, Far less to touch her cheek.
He dreams .
.
.
If only I were King I'd make of her my Queen.
If I were laureate I'd sing Her loveliness serene.
--How wistfully romance can haunt A city restaurant! For as I watch that pensive pair There stirs within my heart From Arcady an April air That shames the sordid mart: A sense of Spring and singing rills, --Love mid the daffodils.

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