The Prince, they say, has had his day
          And it was proud and high;
And now you meet him in the street
          On foot as you and I.
And though you not his shabby coat,
          A monocle he sports,
And has the flair so débonnaire
          Of protocols and courts.

The Prince is lean, his lips are green,
          His face is putty grey;
A meal of meat he cannot eat
          Because he cannot pay.
From Savile Row of long ago
          A threadbare suit he wears,
Yet as I pass he cocks his glass
          And stonily stares.

Bu yesterday upon my way
          His haughtiness I met,
And such his glance of arrogance
          I dropped my cigarette,
For very shy and meek am I,
          Yet as I turned around
I saw him quick bend down and pick
          My fag off the ground.

And so this morn I braved his scorn
          As in the sun we strolled;
A mild gold-flake I begged him take
          From my case of gold.
Sour as a quince I saw him wince,
          His eye-glass he produced.
"No thanks" said he; "Hum! pardon me -
          Have we been introduced?"