Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Why! - Poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
I've thought o'er this until my brain has blisters.
Are you, indeed, such valiant resisters
Of all the charm, the grace, the noble bearing
Of that strange creature who's condemned to wearing
A bifurcated garment, and whose hair
Is pruned, say, monthly - if mere wear and tear
Has not destroyed the crop?
Sisters, I stop
To ponder that strange statement o'er
And, though I don't know very much about it,
Frankly, I doubt it.
For if, indeed, you have no conscious aim,
Then why, I claim,
Why, sisters, WHY,
Why the glad eye?
And, by the by,
Why that adorable, coy, cute, elusive, shy
That certain - shall we say, that certain sly
The down-dropped eye
That half expressed desire to gently lean
Oh, you know what I mean.
If there is nothing to it,
Why do you do it?
Sisters, indeed, I am truly perplexed
Nay, almost vexed . . .
Again I pause
To meditate on certain proven laws,
On certain schemes and - shall we call them traps?
Oh, well, perhaps:
Biology and sex and motor rides,
Gardens in moonlight, the jazz, the little dinner, the bush picnic, the surfing
party and many things besides
If you are really never out to catch
(Not to say snatch)
A noble husband, then - wait a minute,
Aha! I knew there must be some catch in it!
Of course, a sudden thought,
He never IS a husband till he's caught!. . .
Let me retaliate,
And boldly state:
A spinster is mistaken in supposing
That any man, no matter how imposing,
How brave, how true, how noble, how devout
A smany of us are, without a doubt
To catch a wife.
Not - on - your - LIFE!
He's out to catch a maid.
The giddy blade!
To make her wife. Believe it or ignore it,
But, sisters, this dull world's much better for it!
Comments about Why! by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe