Lady

Tumbling down steep stairs

A case of cobwebs heavy,

Smiling at the utmost effort,

Skin the tone of scurvy,

Boston's boy can climb

The dunes for twice

The cost of gravy, but he's

Dangling from my skinny sword

With half the wit of any.

Many glad returns are hid

Between his teeth of gypsum,

But that granite planet rains

A bluish sort of flotsam.

I scarce believed my lady

When she secretly looked eastward,

Chanting magic amulets

And singing to the mustard,

"Mayn't I sit down to pray

Before we beat our custard?"

Silky simple reasons are

The meanest form of violence,

And so I braided back her locks

With maple-flavored pie crust.

But fancy prancing silhouettes

Kept rolling past the market,

And 'spite considerable wealth

Her value tumbled skyward.

"One bashful kiss," I whispered

On her blissful lips that hour,

And though her Boston boy

Was felled, my lady made me wander.

"I'd rather eat my cream of wheat

With any other dullard!"

But as I wept into my soup,

My mind had scattered widely.

As night crept near, I'd never

Dreamed a bird could keen so sadly.

For after all the wind and wing

Beat back the bedroom window,

My lady bade a dirge to march

On golden-silver meadow,
A piece of poverty gilt over--
Feathered, soaring shadow,

Spectacle in one blue boot,
Her face made up with tears and soot,

For now she was a widow. 

EJR