At her pink tights through fœtid waves
Of pulsing awe; they are her slaves.
They are her slaves; she smiles and they
Are near-bewitched to see her sway
Along the slender wire trapeze
Into the card-board painted trees.
The sugared music stops, she stands
Upon her plump and milk-white hands.
Bird-like she rises, blows a kiss
To the spectators, moist with bliss.