Spasms.

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7

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Know ye the land where red hats and red houses
Are emblems of needs that are felt in their clime?
Where beetroot with lobster insanely carouses
To melt ye to moaning or madden to crime?

!

O suburbs whose sins are as scarlet!
O city encrimsoned with crimes!
What vile and monotonous varlet
Has fashioned the hats of your times?
How can you be soothed by the slumber
That broods on a time-payment bed,
Whose architects roof you with number-
Less crude shades of red?

!!

Seven colours the sages give rainbows,
And their tints too are seventy times seven,
Yet you would have damsels to gain beaux
By one hue of all under heaven:
Your sanguine outshining the sunset,
Your carmine stained deeper than blood,
Make incomprehensible onset:
—I don’t think they should.

!!!

Aurora Australis, the maiden
Whose blush was so modest and meek,
With horror her headgear has laden
And ceased to be green (so to speak)
No milliner frightful affrays her,
She flames to th’ incarnadined sky,
And angrily bids the rash gazer
Again wipe his eye.

!!!!

By tarantulas ruddy that bit you,
And crazed you, and left you for red;
By tomatoes ripe, squashy, that smit you
And showered their pulp on your head;
By the Woman of Scarlet, whose glories
Appear as a prevalent pest,
O tempora! O astra! O mores!
(The Vernacular Lady:
“O give us a rest!”)

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