In my figurative furbelow, figurative frill,
I was sitting one evening, as old poets will,
And unrolling a parchment and inking a quill,
When a lightning-bug dropped on my window-sill.
And this cheap little modern-American blighter
Kept flicking the flint in his cigarette-lighter;
But because by a trifle my room became brighter,
I tapped him this tune on my tin typewriter.