She has got a lie to tell!
As a reader,
The finest thing you can
do,
Is to sense her,
And also the nastiest
thing is,
To sense her.
For her secrets are not,
As prosaic as they seem;
So keep pretending only,
That you know nothing,
About her blithe-eyed
lie,
And let arrive the time,
When she would die,
With what she was born,
Underneath her long
flowing gown,
With corsage tucked
above —
A mound of mysterious
words,
Some thorny scarlet
roses,
And a sleeping hound!
