Madam Life's a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere:
She's the tenant of the room,
He's the ruffian on the stair.
You shall see her as a friend,
You shall bilk him once or twice;
But he'll trap you in the end,
And he'll stick you for her price.
With his kneebones at your chest,
And his knuckles in your throat,
You would reason -- plead -- protest!
Clutching at her petticoat;
But she's heard it all before,
Well she knows you've had your fun,
Gingerly she gains the door,
And your little job is done.
A visual poem. One can picture this in stages. The awareness of the rotten underbelly of Victorian life is immense. This poem deserves more appreciation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I don't think this is about Victorian life, just a telling metaphor of life and death in general. Life is the alluring prostitute, Death is her pimp, who will claim payment from us all eventually.