Classic Poem

(The man who wants the perfect wife should marry a
'stock-size.' She comes cheaper.-London Chronicle.)

Ah, Myrtilla, woe and dear me!
Lackadaydee and alas!
What is this, I greatly fear me,
That has come to pass?

Craving, as I do, perfection,
Loathing anything like flaws,
I must raise a slight objection
To your building laws.

You are five one-and-a-quarter,
And your girth is thirty-three-
Myrtie, you're a little shorter
Than you ought to be.

It is far from my intentions
Your proportions to describe,
Briefly, Myrtie, your dimensions
Do not seem to jibe.

Farewell, Myrt, for Ethelisa
Seems to be my certain fate,
Stupid? Silly? Sure, but she's a
Perfect thirty-eight.