It costs you ten to see the sight,
The weather always lowers;
Your seat is narrow, hard and tight,
You wait for hours and hours;
And when at last the thing is o’er,
And the last red light has fizzled
You know the thing has been a bore;
Once more you’ve been machizzled!
Meem, n. An artificial half light that women love; a charitable obscurity; a becoming gloom.
Meem´y, a. Obscure, dim, uncertain.
From a brilliantly lighted hall outside, you plunge into the meemy parlors wherein shadows flit, vague, uncertain. You stumble over a rug. A silhouette rises and comes forth to meet you. How many are there there? Who are they? Mysterious is the meem!
Meemy is that uneasy, tantalizing obscurity, that depressed semi-darkness that women who-would-be-artistic find so necessary for the preservation of their charms. To a man the meem is maddening and meaningless; if there are pretty women present, he wishes to see them. (See Kipe.)
There’s a dim, religious meem, the shadowy penumbra of great cathedrals—the sentimental meem, the sad gloom of the funeral—the amorous meem, the starlit darkness, wherein lovers linger.
The meemy woman always sits with her back to the light, to watch you from an ambush. (See Squinch.)
Candles are meemy, especially red ones—except when used properly, in clusters.
Still, a meem does keep out the flies.