Down her, clutch her by the hair,
Smear the vitriol on her face.
(Ah! Imagination rare)
See… he takes his hat to go;
Now he’s level with her chair;
Now she rises up to throw….
God! and she has done it too…
Oh, those screams; those hideous screams!
I imagined and… It’s true:
How his face will haunt my dreams!
What a sight! It makes me sick.
Seems I am to blame somehow.
Garçon, fetch a brandy quick…
There! I’m feeling better now.
Let’s collaborate, we two,
You the Mummer, I the Bard;
Oh, what ripping stuff we’ll do,
Sitting on the Boulevard!
It is strange how one works easily at times. I wrote this so quickly that I might almost say I had reached the end before I had come to the beginning. In such a mood I wonder why everybody does not write poetry. Get a Roget’s Thesaurus, a rhyming dictionary: sit before your typewriter with a strong glass of coffee at your elbow, and just click the stuff off.
