A thousand Malabaric wives
Roam beneath green-tufted palms;
Revel in the vileness
That Bishop Heber psalms.
From honey-combs of light and shade
They stop to watch black bodies dart
Into the sea to search for pearls.
By means of diabolic art
Magicians keep the sharks away;
Mutter, utter, each dark spell,
So that if a thief should steal,
One more black would go to Hell.
But Mrs. Freudenthal, in furs,
From brioche dreams to mild surprise
Awakes; the music throbs and purrs.
The cellist, with albino eyes,
Rivets attention; is, in fact,
The very climax; pink eyes flash
Whenever nervous and pain-racked
He hears the drums and cymbols clash.
Mrs. Freudenthal day-dreams
—Ice-spoon half-way to her nose—
Till the girl in ochre screams,
Hits out at the girl in rose.
This is not at all the way
To act in large and smart hotels;
Angrily the couples sway,
Eagerly the riot swells.
Girls who cannot act with grace
Should learn behaviour; stay at home;
A convent is the proper place.
Why not join the Church of Rome?
A waiter nearly drops the tray
—Twenty tea-cups in one hand.
Now the band joins in the fray,
Fighting for the Promised Land.
Mrs. Freudenthal resents
The scene; and slowly rustles out,
But the orchestra relents,
Waking from its fever bout.