Mrs. Seymour Fentolin

The lauded lilies of the field
Who toil not—neither do they spin,
The palm sartorial must yield
To Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs!
Not even Solomon could win
The championship for showy togs
From Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

The two extremes in décolleté,
Of ballroom and of bathing beach,
Here meet in a bewildering way
And mingle all the charms of each.

I am no social butter-in,
I do not crave to meet her bunch,
But where does Mrs. Fentolin,
If one might venture—take her lunch?

And might one ask that peerless dame,
Without appearing impolite,
Is Seymour really her first name,
And has the printer spelt it right?