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Poem	My Lady is dancing so lightly, The belle of the Embassy Ball; I lied as I kissed her politely, And hurried away from it all. I'm taxiing up to Montmartre, With never a pang of regret, To toy for awhile with the garter Of her whom I know as Babette. My Lady's an exquisite creature, As rare as a queen on a throne; She's faultless in form and in feature, But oh, she is cold as a stone. And so from her presence I hurry, Her iciness quick to forget In sensuous joy as I bury My face in the breast of Babette. She's only a flower of the pavement; With Paris and Spring in her eyes; Yet I who foresaw what the grave meant Of passion behold with surprise, When she greets me as gay as a linnet, Afar from life's fever and fret I'm twenty years younger the minute I enter the room of Babette. The poor little supper she offers Is more than a banquet to me; A different bif-tik she proffers, Pommes frit and a morsel of Brie; We finish with coffee and kisses, Then sit on the sofa and pet . . . At the Embassy Mumm never misses, But pinard's my drink with Babette. Somehow and somewhere to my thinking, There's a bit of apache in us all; In bistros I'd rather be drinking, Than dance at the Embassy Ball. How often I feel I would barter My place in the social set, To roam in a moonlit Montmartre, Alone with my little Babette. I'm no longer young and I'm greying; I'm tailored, top-hatted, kid-gloved, And though in dark ways i be straying, It's heaven to love and beloved; The passion of youth to re-capture. . . . My Lady's perfection and yet When I kiss her I think of the rapture I find in the charms of Babette - Entwined in the arms of Babettte.
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