Oh, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good, Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would. The little chills run up and down my spine whene’ er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’ s very trim and neat.
And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can’ t be said. If you seek for what has hurt you — why, you cannot find the head!
But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain. If anybody asks you why, you really can’ t explain! A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt, Yet when it’ s sticking in your flesh you’ re wretched till it’ s out.
She is wonderfully observing — when she meets a pretty girl, She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl; And she is so sympathetic to her friend who’ s much admired, She is often heard remarking, “Dear, you look so worn and tired.”
And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman’ s natural pride, And she said, “Oh, how becoming!” and then gently added, “it Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.”
Then she said, “If you had heard me yester eve, I’ m sure, my friend, You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.” And she left me with the feeling — most unpleasant, I aver — That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’ t been for her.
Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day. And the hat that was imported ( and which cost me half a sonnet ), With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.
She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for a thrust. Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust, Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin!
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