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...BURIAL OF MOSES by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER SLEEPY HOLLOW by WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1817-1901) FOR G. by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 7. TO REVEREND BENJAMIN, LORD BISHOP OF WINCHESTER by MARK AKENSIDE SEVEN SAD SONNETS: 6. THE WANDERING ONE MAKES MUSIC by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS A SOUTHERN NIGHT by MATTHEW ARNOLD |