And so, I say, they whispered:—“Does she hear this awful man,
Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”
John Littlehouse the redhead sang on of his desires:
“Steel makes the wires of lyres, makes the frames of terrible towers
And circus chariots’ tires.
Believe me, dear, a blacksmith man can feel.
I will bind you, if I can to my ribs with hoops of steel.
Do you hear me, Polly Ann, Polly Ann?”
And then his tune was silence, for he was not a fool.
He let his voice rest, his iron guitar cool.