SHE'S thirty, this feminine cove, And she looks it at hand, you'll allow. I was once on the streets. By Jove, I was handsomer then than now: Thin lips? Oh, you bet! and deep lines. So I powder and paint as you see; And that's belladonna that shines Where a dingier light ought to be. But I'm plump, and my legs-do you doubt me?- You'll see when I go on the stage! And there isn't a pad, sir, about me; I'm a proper good girl for my age! I can't sing a bit, I can't shout; But I go through my songs with a birr; And I always contrive to bring out The meaning that tickles you, sir. They were written for me; they're the rage; They're the plainest, the wildest, the slyest; For I find on the music-hall stage, That that kind of song goes the highest. So I give it them hot, with a glance Like the crack of a whip-oh, it stings! And a still, fiery smile, and a dance That indicates naughtiest things. And I like it. It isn't the best: There are nurses, and nuns, and good wives; But life's pretty much of a jest, And you can't very well lead two lives. But sometimes wild eyes will grow tame, And a voice have a tone-ah, you men! - And a beard please me-oh, there's my name! Well? I take a week's holiday then. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIS SUMMER AND LAST by THOMAS HARDY THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG by ALEXANDER POPE PSALM 10. UT QUID DOMINE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE RENUNCIATION by MATHILDE BLIND THE DRYAD by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN ON MISS J. SCOTT OF AYR by ROBERT BURNS |