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Robert W Service - Babette
Work rating: Medium

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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