Wednesday, April 23, 2014


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.”

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