Sitting in the lamp-light gold, is a group of ladies,
Pouring over books and things, looking rather shady,
Ghostly gleams in gimlet eyes, fingers shaped like talons,
Eating stale Madeira cake, drinking tea in gallons.
One gets up, at last, to speak, recites the Jabberwocky,
And they clap and cheer her tale, like they do at hockey,
But the clock strikes four a-m, and the daylight&'s dawning,
So they shuffle through the tomb, rubbing eyes and yawning.
Off they go to humble graves and marble mausoleum,
Lying through the daylight hours in Doric coliseum,
But when sunset comes again, and the wolfs' bane blossoms,
Darkling shapes will flit and sway, like nocturnal possums.
And in white suburban lace, with the tallow gleaning,
Veiled and dead forgotten girls will get on with their reading.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved