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Poem	His portrait hung upon the wall. Oh how at us he used to stare. Each Sunday when I made my call! -- And when one day it wasn't there, Quite quick I seemed to understand The light was green to hold her hand. Her eyes were amorously lit; I knew she wouldn't mind at all. Yet what I did was sit and sit Seeing that blankness on the wall . . . Horatio had a gentle face,-- How would my mug look in his place? That oblong of wall-paper wan! And while she prattled prettily I sensed the red light going on, So I refused a cup of tea, And took my gold-topped cane and hat-- My going seemed to leave her flat. Horatio was a decent guy, And when she ravished from her heart A damsite better man than I, She seemed to me,--well, just a tart: Her lack of tact I can't explain. His picture,--is it hung again?
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