The Ceroc Years - Number Four

The Maiden

Pity pretty, blushing maid,
In the Dance-Hall’s gloomy shade:
Which seductive song’s caress
Could melt thy stern unwillingness.

In what far-flung land forlorn
Was this elfin maiden born?
Who the man dare brave the test
To win the heart beneath thy breast?

And what style and what knack
Might impel thee ’cross his back?
And as thy blood begins to race,
What sweet soul and what sweet face.

What the music? What the beat,
Will tempt those yet reluctant feet?
What the manner? What the charm?
What the hell, so where’s the harm?

When Pre-Raphaelites romanced,
Was it thy form they had glanced?
Lov’st thou Byrne-Jones and Rossetti,
Or the wealth of John Paul Getty?

Pity pretty, blushing maid,
In the Dance-Hall’s gloomy shade:
Which seductive song’s caress
Dare melt thy stern unwillingness.