With gilded cloche I saw you crowned,
Crush-drunk dressed and midnight gowned,
Eternal in the June croonlight.
A spit-buffed alto memory prayed;
Echoes of tobacco swayed
And made petition in their flight.
Intoxicating snare drum roll;
Daisy in my buttonhole;
Tender, yearning in the night,
Straining toward your signal keen,
Circe calling, ever green,
Ever on the edge of sight--
Just another Jazz Age fool
Floating on a crimson pool.
But, hush: It may yet turn out right.