OH! wherefore and why art thou, old chaperon?

The days of thy usefulness long since have flown;

And useless not only art thou, but, far worse,

Thou art of my life the one torment and course.

I call on my Susie, but thou sittest by;

Wide open thine ear is, alert is thine eye.

To concerts, church, sleigh-rides we can't go alone,

But always must take thee, too, old chaperon.

If the rose I would gather, so fragrant and fair,

Thou art the keen thorn that dost bid me beware;

Or if the bright pearl I would snatch from the sea,

Thou art the closed shell that withholds it from me.

A thirst am I, and from the fountain would drink,

Thou art the green serpent that lurks in its brink;

Or, famished, would pluck the ripe fruit from the tree,

Thou fliest forth from it, a keen stinging bee.

Thou art the black cloud that e'er darkens my sky;

Thou art the great mote that oppresses my eye.

An incubus filling my soul full of woes;

The one ghastly skeleton my closet knows.

Forgive, dear old lady, the harsh things I've said;

In truth, you've quite driven me out of my head.

You're not an attractive old maid, you must own;

And you do bore me awfully, old chaperon.