With all her funny pomp,
Else puts her solemn face in place
before her looking-glass, says cheese and
glides out to the ball.
Her lips, of course, in
pink, her lids in blue; her latest
lashes black, gold-splashed, curled slyly like
flies’ legs with no fly.
And, below the muss,
Correctly fair, her nice fawn suit;
fairly correct, black patent heels which
scuff dull but still smile.
You don’t know Else, though,
by her ceremony; only
she knows who she really is: is
she a queen or Else?
Copyright: Richard Fox 1974
All rights reserved