The door stood, antediluvian and cold,
With wooden shavings spread around,
And so filthy that o'er worst days
I shan't enter or hold
The doorknob on which bound
Squalor of the London ways.

And the floor which held
Tissues and crap
And gargantuan blots of spew
That once when Lord Hardy fell'd
Not even the cologne could wrap
His body which refused to be born anew.

And the walls, abode to flies,
And washed with dirt,
That Lord Hardy raised a clever doubt
Of whether Diana Hardy uttered adverse lies
When he beheld her clean, ironed skirt
Which yet held its rhinestones about.

And the ceiling dropping murky water under,
On the tress of the chambermaid,
And deposits rust upon her head.
And Lord Hardy ill and asunder,
Admonishing the lass for what couldn't fade,
And saw her clothes laid on her bed.

"O Diana! In the name of Christ, hold
Thy apparel and keep 'em aside."
And Lord Hardy sporting his rosy jowl,
Held the codswallop and folded and roll'd,
And shoves it in what the closet couldn't confide.
And Lord Hardy let out a howl.

Thus, pestered Diana to dress
Her boudoir in moral principle.
But untrue as her name,
She purified in a week to mess
What hath remained invincible
And yet Lord Hardy upheld the blame.