'O MY pretty pink frock, I sha'n't be able to wear it! Why is he dying just now? I hardly can bear it! 'He might have contrived to live on; But they say there's no hope whatever: And must I shut myself up, And go out never? 'O my pretty pink frock? Puff-sleeved and accordion-pleated! He might have passed in July, And not so cheated!' |