The girl in the showy, daisy lace dress
in the form of Dian, crowned with volupture
Sits on the train with diary in her lap
Locks sparkle with the comfort of autumn sun
and the flow of her frock makes him want it undone.
She writes in her book words small and clandestine
he leans to peak, but she catches his sign,
and smooths back with a frown, the coal leather cover
and a white little hand adorned with gems of emerald and silver
“My name is Stephen.” He says
and screws darks eyes on her in blooming lust.
He draws himself from the plush of his chair
to stretch and know the lady with paper flesh and fiery hair.
“My name is Eliza” She replies,
and her glance stuns him;
those frosty blue eyes
send arrows right through to his burning soul
and so his cheeks then burn as well!
She has not ounce of craving for his skin,
so she purses her lips so light and thin
and unlocks once more that little book
and nudges it towards him, so he can look.
And so from his physiognomy the rouge does drain
and he falls back pale, his chest freezing in pain
as he stares stonily upon the the illustration
of two women, bound together in bridal gowns of emancipation!
With mouth agape, he gawps on yonder
At the now sinful and heathenenised Eliza
And then the second lady from the picture,
sweeps the carriage, to proudly kiss her!
