Hearts hang in the parlor
hung with care,
the lady is hypnotized by a mirror
fondling her glowing hair -
In the waiting room he sits
twiddling his thumbs,
so long has he sat
the blood has deserted his buns -
She takes her time
with her brave disquise,
all a plan meant
to feverishly tantalize -
Nervously he
clears his throat,
checks his watch again
and looks toward his hanging coat -
Finally in all her glory
she appears,
but looking around
she finds him nowhere -
He has left
and headed down the street,
into an old pub
finding someone easier to meet -
Now, the morale of the story is:
Gals, if you're gonna make a man wait,
ya best go out quick
and lock the front gate -

Smoky Hoss

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wait-41/