To a Female Dude   Leave a comment

Above:  The Blue Lady, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

You are pretty, Miss, I know,

Loved by many a silly beau,

But ‘t is not that sacred love

Kindred to the kind above.


‘Tis a baser love’s keen darts

That have shot their chicken hears,

And have seized and hold the reins

O’er their watery, pigeon brains.

Could they only look within

At the soul so warped by sin,

At the heart by passion stormed,

Rent, distorted and deformed,

See the chaos ignorance wrought,

Where should be the realms of thought,

It would tame the wildest rove,

And turn sour such a love.

They would tell you otherwise,

Stamp what I say only lies.


But you’ll find in season due,

Every word I say is true,

For the rose that blooms to-day,

On your cheek, shall fade away,

And for beauty, now so rare,

Ashy paleness shall be there;

Then those lips, in ruby dress,

That so many long to press,

Shall be shrunk–then I’ll not kiss ’em,

If there’s any chance to miss ’em.


Then ‘ll your silly, giggling, grin

Show no pearly teeth within,

And the lustre then shall fly

From your sparkling, dancing eye,

Sunken in its socket deep,

Thence no spirit fair shall peep,

For were you of passion’s fire,

And your easy nestled ire,

Vanity and pride but reft,

There would be no spirit left.


Many a trace of care’s rough plough

Shall be then upon your brow,

And your silly, giggling tones,

Be replaced with sighs and groans,

And that form does not inspire,

As it now does, warm desire.

Twisted, shrunken, stooped, and lean,

Whippoorwill-like, lank and keen,

With your little soul and mind,

By the coils of vice entwined;

It would make all love to shrivel,

For ‘twould nauseate old Scratch.


Posted October 6, 2012 by neatnik2009 in John Dodson Taylor Sr.--Poems, Love 1800s

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