A DREAM OF QUEER WOMEN.
(With Apologies to the Poet Laureate.)
I READ, before mine eyelids dropt their shade,
The last romance from MUDIE'S lately writ
By one who is considered—in the trade—
The flower of female wit.
Miss BLANK, the famous writer, whose wild way
Of fiction-weaving was the first to fill
The startled times of good VICTORIA
With ghosts which haunt them still.
And for awhile I tumbled on my bed,
Her Art from slumber held me, as strong gales
Hold driven birds from lighting, and my head,
Chock-full of her strange tales.
* * * *
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here!
I want to look at you."
I, turning, saw, curled in an easy chair,
One sitting well wrapped up, as if from cold,
Her cheeks were peachy, and her fluffy hair
Was of the tawny gold.
She, flashing forth a Circe smile, began:
"I murdered men for fun—it was my trade;
But, oh, 'tis long since I have slain a man.
Once, panther-like I played
"With many husbands, and then shed their blood,
But life in this dim place is vastly slow;
I have no men to murder in my mood—
That makes my only woe!
"The men, my lovers, how they bowed their necks
'Neath the neat boots wherewith my feet were shod!
I witched them, and the sturdiest of the sex
Were vassals to my nod.
"At last the sly detective tracked me down;
I tried to coax him, but the brute was cold.
They found the last poor fool I tried to drown,
And for the rest—behold!"
With that she tore her robe apart, and half
The polished ivory of her shoulders grand
Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh,
Showing the convict's brand.
* * * *
From Punch, October 12, 1878.