Miss Fay the Trapezist
RED ostrich feathers in her hair,She balances while people stareAt her pink tights through fœtid wavesOf pulsing awe; they are her slaves.They are her slaves; she smiles and theyAre near-bewitched to see her swayAlong the slender wire trapezeInto the card-board painted trees.The sugared music stops, she standsUpon her plump and milk-white hands.Bird-like she rises, blows a kissTo the spectators, moist with bliss.The brass band plays a tepid valseOf sickly syrup-sounds, the falsePearls of a dowager keep time.They too were pretty in their prime.Then the spectators clap, they burstApplause until a molten thirstTugs at their dewlaps, when Miss FayFlutters a curtsey to the day.
RED ostrich feathers in her hair,She balances while people stareAt her pink tights through fœtid wavesOf pulsing awe; they are her slaves.They are her slaves; she smiles and theyAre near-bewitched to see her swayAlong the slender wire trapezeInto the card-board painted trees.The sugared music stops, she standsUpon her plump and milk-white hands.Bird-like she rises, blows a kissTo the spectators, moist with bliss.The brass band plays a tepid valseOf sickly syrup-sounds, the falsePearls of a dowager keep time.They too were pretty in their prime.Then the spectators clap, they burstApplause until a molten thirstTugs at their dewlaps, when Miss FayFlutters a curtsey to the day.
RED ostrich feathers in her hair,She balances while people stareAt her pink tights through fœtid wavesOf pulsing awe; they are her slaves.
RED ostrich feathers in her hair,
She balances while people stare
At her pink tights through fœtid waves
Of pulsing awe; they are her slaves.
They are her slaves; she smiles and theyAre near-bewitched to see her swayAlong the slender wire trapezeInto the card-board painted trees.
They are her slaves; she smiles and they
Are near-bewitched to see her sway
Along the slender wire trapeze
Into the card-board painted trees.
The sugared music stops, she standsUpon her plump and milk-white hands.Bird-like she rises, blows a kissTo the spectators, moist with bliss.
The sugared music stops, she stands
Upon her plump and milk-white hands.
Bird-like she rises, blows a kiss
To the spectators, moist with bliss.
The brass band plays a tepid valseOf sickly syrup-sounds, the falsePearls of a dowager keep time.They too were pretty in their prime.
The brass band plays a tepid valse
Of sickly syrup-sounds, the false
Pearls of a dowager keep time.
They too were pretty in their prime.
Then the spectators clap, they burstApplause until a molten thirstTugs at their dewlaps, when Miss FayFlutters a curtsey to the day.
Then the spectators clap, they burst
Applause until a molten thirst
Tugs at their dewlaps, when Miss Fay
Flutters a curtsey to the day.