The Ninety-Seventh Floor

The burglar opened up the door
On the ninety-seventh floor,
Closed it, heard a strange hard click,
And knew that he was free no more.

The walls began to move on in,
A window seemed to beckon him.
With little time he leaped through glass,
Fell twenty feet and made a splash.

He gulped for air and looked about;
He heard a gasping, laughing shout.
The ninety-fifth floor had a pool,
And he was made to look a fool.

The girl said, “Some burglar, you;
On your off days, what do you do?”
He climbed out, dripping wet, and said,
“My burglarizing days are through.”

She flicked her gold hair off her face
And told him not to go to waste,
But he, so struck by what he saw,
Asked paper, pen, and ‘gan to draw.

She smiled then, so glad to see
This sweet attempt at artistry,
But when he finished, held it tall—
Amazed her with “Professional!”

She trembled then, and softly said,
“Oh, what if you had fallen dead?
Or cracked your arm or broke your hand?”
And he said, “Are you the queen of fairy land?”

Oh artists, don’t despairing be,
Just find a girl to love, though poor.
But should you fall for burglary
Try the ninety-seventh floor.

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