Indeed her only garments were
A ‘G’ string and a brassière
Her washerwoman was amazed,
And at the lady gazed and gazed, –
From billowy-bosom swell
To navel like a pink sea shell.
The Countess has of robes three score,
She doffs and leaves them on the floor;
She changes gowns ten times a ay,
Her chambermaid puts them away.
‘How funny!’ thinks the washer-wife;
‘I’ve toiled and toiled throughout my life,
And only have, to hide my skin,
This old rag that I’m standing in.’
The Countess never toiled at all;
She begged for coin when she was small,
And later, in the ancient fashion,
In gay resorts she peddled passion.|
But now to noble rank arrived,
(Tom wed the old Count she contrived)
Her youthful lover, lounging there,
Is hirsute as a teddy-bear.
The Countess will be honoured when
She dies past three-score years and ten.
The washer-women will wear out
With labour fifty years about . . .
Yet as the two look at each other
The Countess thinks: ‘So was my mother;
And washer-wife to live and die,
But for God’s grace so would be I.’