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Poem	She does not mind a good cigar (The kind, that is, I smoke); She thinks all men quite stupid are, (But laughs whene’er I joke). She says she does not care for verse (But praises all I write); She says that punning is a curse, (But then mine are so bright!) She does not like a big moustache (You see that mine is small); She hates a man with too much “dash,” (I scarcely dash at all!) She simply dotes on hazel eyes (And mine, you note, are that); She likes a man of portly size; (Gad! I am getting fat!) She says champagne is made to drink; (In this we quite agree!) And all these symptoms make me think Sweet Kate’s in love with me.
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