As ladders of fame, or a medium’s table;
With a riotous pulse, and her blood all aglow
With the fervor of passion, of pleasure, and show.
The bridegroom is pussy, rheumatic and old,
His teeth are in rubber, his blood thin and cold;
His nose tells a tale of inordinate drams,
The gout has laid hold of his corn-laden yams;
The hairs on his cranium scattering stand,
Like ill-nourished blades on a desert of sand.
I muse as I gaze on their arms softly twined;