SHE was so esthetic and culchud, Just doted on Wagner and Gluck; And claimed that perfection existed In some foreign English bred duke. She raved over Browning and Huxley, And Tyndal, and Darwin, and Taine; And talked about flora and fauna, And many things I can't explain. Of Madame Blavatski, the occult, Theosophy, art, and then she Spoke of the Cunead Sibyl And Venus de Med-i-che. She spoke of the why and the wherefore, But longed for the whither and whence; And she said yclept, yip, yap and yonder Were used in alliterative sense. Well, I like a fool sat dumfounded, And wondered what she didn't know 'T was 10 when I bade her good evening, I thought it in season to go. I passed her house yesterday evening, I don't know, but it seems to me, She was chasing around in the kitchen, And getting things ready for tea. I heard her sweet voice calling: "Mother," It was then that I felt quite abashed, For she yelled, "How shall I fix the 'taters, Fried, lionized, baked, biled, or mashed?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BIRDS by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ASIAN BIRDS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE PET NAME by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING A TRAGIC STORY by ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO TO MAKE A PRAIRIE by EMILY DICKINSON E TENEBRIS [FROM THE SHADOWS] by OSCAR WILDE BROWN PENNY by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 1. LORD CRASHTON by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |