CABARET DANCERS
Will be a stuffy, opulent sort of fungus
Spread on both hands and on the up-pushed bosom—
It juts like a shelf between the jowl and corset.
Have you, or I seen most of cabarets, good Hedgethorn?
Here's Pepita, tall and slim as an Egyptian mummy,
Marsh-cranberries, the ribbed and angular pods
Flare up with scarlet orange on stiff stalks
And so Pepita
flares on the crowded stage before our tables
Or slithers about between the dishonest waiters—
"Carmen est maigre, un trait de bistre
Cerne son œil de gitana"
And "rend la flamme"
you know the deathless verses.
I search the features, the avaricious features
Pulled by the kohl and rouge out of resemblance—
Six pence the object for a change of passion.
"Write me a poem."
Come now, my dear Pepita,
"-ita, bonita, chiquita,"
that's what you mean you advertising spade,
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