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THE RED HEART
IV The Ivory Steeple

James Reaney

 

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The Beauty of Miss Beatty


The beauty of Miss Beatty,
As everyone declared,
Was the way her bosoms dared
Though never really bared
To seem so anyhow.
Though some shrieked,
How like a cow!
And others uttered to their mother,
Not a bosom but an udder!
Oh, what a snake, what an adder she is!
For see how all, ALL, the men
Weven those with a wen
Or a hump
Or a lump
On the back of their necks
Or with only one arm
Like a pump
Flock around her
In a great clump
Ever at her beck and call to flounder
In the great glittering puddle of her charm!

Oh, look, said the Mother
Oh, look ahead, said she,
To her rather plain daughter.
Look ahead
To the beauty of Miss Beatty in her grave.
Death is notoriously bored with bosoms
And touches them and punctures them
Without any compunction.
He topples over the tent
Sucks at it and withers it
And as you know my dear
And as everyone certainly ought to
It has always been that lust
Has always rhymed with dust.