The Viduate Dame

’Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
  And she goeth upon the spree,
And red are cheeks of the bystanders
  For her acts are light and free.

In a seven-ounce costume
  The widow of Thomas Blythe,
Y-perched high on the window ledge,
  The difficult can-can tryeth.

Ten constables they essay
  To bate the dame’s halloing.
With the widow of Thomas Blythe
  Their hands are overflowing.

And they cry: “Call the National Guard
  To quell this parlous muss⁠—
For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
  Are upon the spree and us!”

O long shall the eerie tale be told
  By that posse’s surviving tithe;
And with tears bedewed he’ll sing this rude
  Ballàd of the widow of Thomas Blythe.