Old lady sitting still Pine trees standing quite still Sisters of mercy whispering Oust the Dryad
O consecration of forest To the uneventful
I cannot imagine anything Less disputably respectable Than prolonged invalidism in Italy At the beck Of a British practitioner
Of all permissible pastimes Attendant upon chastity The one with which you can most efficiently insult Life Is your hobby of collecting death-beds Blue Nun
So wrap the body in flannel and wool Of superior quality from the Anglo-American Until that ineffable moment When Rigor Mortis Divests it of its innate impurity
While round the hotel Wanton Italian matrons Discuss the better business of bed-linen To regular puncture of needles
The old lady has a daughter Who has been spent In chasing moments from one room to another When the essence of an hour Was in its passing With the passionate breath Of the bronchitis kettle And her last little lust Lost itself in a saucer of gruel
But all this moribund stuff Is not wasted For there is always Nature So its expensive upkeep Goes to support The loves Of head-waiters