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...PRELUDE TO A FAIRY TALE by EDITH SITWELL THE CLOUDS: THE CLOUD CHORUS by ARISTOPHANES ON FINDING A FAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SPRING AND FALL: TO A YOUNG CHILD by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG by JAMES BALLANTYNE |