’Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings,
And bridal jewels of fangs and stings,
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings;
Is the mildewed whir of her own dead wings;
Tickle me, dear; tickle me here;
Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs.
Robert J. Burdette.
From S. Thompson’s Collection of Poems. Chicago. 1886.
Studies in Exotic Verse.