Her feet are pretty, but methinks,
The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx
Could trip as lightly—
And yet she is a regular,
Serene and well established star
Who twinkles nightly.
And Solomon for all his stir,
Had not a single jewel on her,
Nor did his capers
Procure him even half the space
For publication of his face
In ancient papers.
Her gowns, her furs, her limousines
Would catch the eye of stately queens
In any city—
She cannot sing, or dance or act,
But then I have remarked the fact—
Her feet are pretty.
THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER
A moment since, the office boy,
Invisible as Night itself,
Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf
And tasted peace, without alloy.
Secure from all the day's alarms,
Of boss and bell the very jinx,
He gazed immobile as the Sphinx
On pompous front and painted charms.
Now out of interstellar space,
Beyond the sunlight and the storm,
Appears that lightning-laden form,
That toothful smile, that cryptic face.
Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?—
He was so hid from mortal eyes,
Perhaps he fell from paradise,
Perhaps they chased him out of hell.
But now his heels show everywhere,
A dozen doors are opened wide,
He stands before, behind, beside,
He fills the ether and the air.