My Aunt’s Spectre, by Mortimer Collins
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greatpoetryMy Aunt’s Spectre
THEY tell me (but I really can’t
Imagine such a rum thing),
It is the phantom of my Aunt,
Who ran away—or something.
It is the very worst of bores:
(My Aunt was most delightful).
It prowls about the corridors,
And utters noises frightful.
At midnight through the rooms It glides,
Behaving very coolly,
Our hearts all throb against our sides—
The lights are burning bluely.
The lady, in her living hours,
Was the most charming vixen
That ever this poor sex of ours
Delighted to play tricks on.
Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall,
In quaint old-fashioned bodice:
Her eyes are blue—her waist is small—
A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!
A fine patrician shape, to suit
My dear old father’s sister—
Lips softly curved, a dainty foot;
Happy the man that kissed her!
Light hair of crisp irregular curl
Over fair shoulders scattered—
Egad, she was a pretty girl,
Unless Sir Thomas flattered!
And who the deuce, in these bright days,
Could possibly expect her
To take to dissipated ways,
And plague us as a spectre?
By Mortimer Collins
THEY tell me (but I really can’t
Imagine such a rum thing),
It is the phantom of my Aunt,
Who ran away—or something.
It is the very worst of bores:
(My Aunt was most delightful).
It prowls about the corridors,
And utters noises frightful.
At midnight through the rooms It glides,
Behaving very coolly,
Our hearts all throb against our sides—
The lights are burning bluely.
The lady, in her living hours,
Was the most charming vixen
That ever this poor sex of ours
Delighted to play tricks on.
Yes, that’s her portrait on the wall,
In quaint old-fashioned bodice:
Her eyes are blue—her waist is small—
A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!
A fine patrician shape, to suit
My dear old father’s sister—
Lips softly curved, a dainty foot;
Happy the man that kissed her!
Light hair of crisp irregular curl
Over fair shoulders scattered—
Egad, she was a pretty girl,
Unless Sir Thomas flattered!
And who the deuce, in these bright days,
Could possibly expect her
To take to dissipated ways,
And plague us as a spectre?
By Mortimer Collins
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no subject
Date: 2014-11-27 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-02 06:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-02 06:23 pm (UTC)We Never Mention Aunt Clara
She used to sing hymns in the old village choir
She taught at the Sunday-school class,
At playing the organ she never would tire
Those dear days are over, alas.
In church at the organ she'd practice each day
While the minister pumped up and down.
His wife caught him pumping the organ one day
And that's why aunt Clara left town.
With presents he tempted and lured her to sin
Her innocent virtue to smirch,
But her honor was strong and she never gave in
Till he gave her the deed to the church.
We never mention aunt Clara;
Her picture is turned to the wall.
Though she lives on the French Riviera
Mother says she is dead to us all.
They said that she'd toil by night and by day
She'd have to scrub floors for her bread,
But inside of a week she discovered a way
To earn her board lying in bed.
They told her the wages of sinners was death.
To this my aunt Clara just said
That she'd just as soon die with champagne on her breath,
And pink satin sheets on her bed.
They said no one cared if she'd ever come back
When she left us her fortune to seek
But the boys in the firehouse painted it black
And the ball team wore mourning that week.
The said that no man would make her his bride
They prophesied children of shame
But she's married three earls and a baron besides
And she hasn't a child to her name.
They said that Hellfire would punish her sin
She'd burn for her carryings-on
But just at the moment she's toasting her skin
On the beaches of Deauville and Cannes.
They said that to garments of sackcloth she'd sink
With ashes to cover her head.
But just at the moment it's ermine and mink
And a diamond tiara instead.
They say that she's sunk in the muck and the mud
But the papers last week showed a snap
Of aunt Clara, at Nice, with a prince of the blood
And a bishop asleep on her lap.
The best things in life always go to the pure
The Sunday school lessons all teach
But I wonder when I see the rotogravure
Of her eighty room shack at the beach.
They say that she's sunken, they say that she fell
From the narrow and virtuous path,
But her French formal gardens are sunken as well
And so is her pink marble bath.
My poor mother's life has been pious and meek
She drives in a second-hand Ford.
Aunt Clara received, for her birthday, last week
A Rolls-Royce, a Stutz and a Cord.
My mother does all of her housework alone
She has to scrub clothes for her board
It strikes me that virtue's not only its own,
But also its only reward.
So we never mention aunt Clara,
But I think that when I grow up tall
I shall live on the French Riviera
And let mother turn me to the wall.
~parody of 'Picture Turned Toward the Wall'
no subject
Date: 2014-12-02 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-02 11:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-02 09:30 pm (UTC)