RED ostrich feathers in her hair,
She balances while people stare
At her pink tights through fœtid waves
Of pulsing awe; they are her slaves.
They are her slaves; she smiles and they
Are near-bewitched to see her sway
Along the slender wire trapeze
Into the card-board painted trees.
The sugared music stops, she stands
Upon her plump and milk-white hands.
Bird-like she rises, blows a kiss
To the spectators, moist with bliss.
The brass band plays a tepid valse
Of sickly syrup-sounds, the false
Pearls of a dowager keep time.
They too were pretty in their prime.
Then the spectators clap, they burst
Applause until a molten thirst
Tugs at their dewlaps, when Miss Fay
Flutters a curtsey to the day.