Earwigs!
Her Gramps had dealt in consols,
Whatever 'consols' were,
Her father was a partner in
A place - 'Chemin de Fer',
Her mother owned cosmetics and
Was worth - Well, who could tell?
So for her seventh birthday
She'd received an Oil Well.
Her uncle had invented some
New way of killing rats,
And other sundry vermin that
Infested women's hats,
He'd got himself a knighthood and
A Villa at St. Clare,
But then he'd died of scurvy
And he'd left it all to her.
She'd never tasted water,
She had only sipped on wine,
And bathed in purest asses milk
From ages six to nine,
Her clothes were hand embroidered
In a thread of woven gold,
With 'Maddie Agnes Muirhead'
Her name... so I've been told.
We knew her just as Maddie
When she married Albert Spink,
He hadn't got a bean, his
Only shirt was stained with ink,
He had to sign a pre-nup leaving
Everything to her,
Which didn't worry Albert,
He was not a connoisseur.
She only bought him beer, seven
Cans, just once a week,
And she gave him cast-off clothing,
Said he didn't have to speak,
Then she kept him in the cellar so
He wouldn't meet her friends,
He was just her bit of rough
For lonely nights, and odd weekends.
They lived out in the country where
There's snakes and bugs and things,
And Albert's job was pest control,
Kill anything with wings,
There's always plagues of centipedes
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
Added by Poetry Lover
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