"Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!"
—And then the Gold Bar snap'd
—And like a bull
She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes
The golden minarets, the opal towers
Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams
About her, seems to wither them like flowers.
Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair
Bowed down with age—is taken unaware,
Slithers, then falls—but, like a shooting-star,
Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins,
Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far
Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins!
Can you consign to everlasting flame
The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?"
And oh! the people, oh! the parties here!
Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat!
Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer;
The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that
Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara
Is made of snakes and scorpions—they are a
Present from the Devil, whose assistance
She claimed on earth—Himself now welcomes in
The new arrival, saying "For Persistence
You have no equal, so, though free from Sin,
We here create you Honorary Member,
Beginning from the Fifth day of November,
(A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett
Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell,
For here are some whom she has never met
—And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell!