Classic Poem

At Romford House the ball-room floor
Mirrored a hostess somewhat flustered;
The debutantes around the door
In mournful groups were clustered;
The band conversed in undertones,
Their leader shrugged a scornful shoulder,
The draught about the chaperones
Blew cold and ever colder;
The butler, on the stairs, grew pale,
He was, alas! the only male.

The rooms became as chill as vaults,
Devoid of all but female dancers;
In vain the bandsmen played a waltz,
A two-step and some Lancers.
The hostess, growing less alert,
Secured an easy chair to nod on;
The maidens' waists remained ungirt,
The matrons' toes untrod on;
Until the butler, with a groan,
Rushed headlong to the telephone.

The clock struck two as from the street
There rose a sound, sublime, seraphic:
The steady tramp of manly feet
Above the roar of traffic!
And Blankley's troupe of well-trained guests,
In clothes from Mr Clarkson rented,
With " evening vests " whose low-cut chests
Bore crimson 'kerchiefs, scented,
With carefully pomatum'd hair,
Ascended Lady Romford's stair!

Let poets tell how Roman geese
Secured the Capitol from capture;
How Jason gained the Golden Fleece
Let bards narrate with rapture.
Upon my tablets is engraved
A deed more splendid still (and subtler),
Whereby the Romford ball was saved
By Bellinger, the butler.
When Blankley nobly filled the breach
With guests at half a guinea each!