THE LADY AND HER DOOM

The mirror crack’d from side to side

“My Doom has come upon me!” cried

The Lady of Shallot

But alas, by eventide

She was sore wounded in her pride;

It seems her Doom forgot

She gurgled now, all angry-eyed,

Contemplating deicide

In sooth, she liked it not

“I should by now have gently died

Been shrived and mourned and left to bide

In some poetic spot

“It seems that I’ve been set aside

Like some ill-favored cast-off bride

To wait and sit and rot

“Like someone whom the Fates deride

(It’s not as though I haven’t tried)

It’s just not fair! It’s not!”

She left her tower, went outside

Let ice-cold anger be her guide

She travelled like a shot

And soon she found, ah woe betide!

Her Doom! She saw him sit beside

A fuming, boiling pot.

“Have at thee, Doom!” the Lady cried

And drew the weapon at her side

“You die here in this grot!”

Her Doom looked mild on her and sighed

“These chips,” he said, “are nearly fried

They’re better while they’re hot.”

“So Tennyson,” quoth he, “has lied

If I were you I’d let it slide

Go read Sir Walter Scott.”