She played me false, but that's not why
I haven't quite forgiven Di,
Although I've tried:
This curl was hers, so brown, so bright,
She gave it me one blissful night,
And--more beside!

In photo we were grouped together;
She wore the darling hat and feather
That I adore;
In profile by her side I sat
Reading my poetry--but that
She'd heard before.

Why, after all, Di threw me over
I never knew, and can't discover,
Or even guess:
Maybe Smith's lyrics, she decided,
Were sweeter than the sweetest I did--
I acquiesce.

A week before their wedding-day
When Smith was called in haste away
To join the Staff,
Di gave to him, with tearful mien,
Our only photograph. I've seen
That photograph.

I've seen it in Smith's album-book!
Just think! her hat--her tender look,
Are now that brute's!
Before she gave it, off she cut
My body, head and lyrics, but
She was obliged, the little slut,
To leave my boots.