Tell Me, Daphne
a poem by Daphne
wisping whiskers were her way of teaching boyish girls to play desperate danger, pickled pears, bellowed burdens sold her wares thrice was seen the way she'd dance — mice, so slaughtered by her lance ruptured wrecking balls of flame, desperate soldiers taught to blame gory glory got her good, fellows falling left her hood simple hovels, knickered nails, queerest cats had empty pails fraught was fiction, fixed was fame, feathered fathers knew thy game ladies lost to all they were; boys in bed who caused a stir someone, somewhere, something too it was not Daphne — that was you
