ON A CRUSHED HAT

Brown was my friend, and faithful — but so fat!

He came to see me in the twilight dim;

I rose politely and invited him

To take a seat — how heavily he sat!

He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,

My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;

Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,

And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.

O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,

Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,

And I shall never wear thee any more;

Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,

And with the years the dust will settle down

On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!