Exquisite torment, dainty Mrs. Hargreaves
Trips down the High Street, slaying hearts a-plenty;
Stricken and doomed are all who meet her eye-shots!
Bar Mr. Hargreaves.
Grocers a-tremble bash their brassy scales down,
Careless of weight and hacking cheese regardless;
Postmen shoot letters in the nearest ashcan,
Dogs dance in circles.
Leaving their meters, gas inspectors gallop,
Water Board men cease cutting off the water;
Florists are strewing expensive posies
In Beauty’s pathway.
‘O cruel fair!’ groan butchers at their chopping,
‘Vive la belle Hargreaves!’ howls a pallid milkman;
Even the Vicar shades his eyes and mutters:
‘O dea certe.‘
Back to ‘Balmoral’ trips the goddess lightly;
Night comes at length, and Mr. Hargreaves with it,
Casting his bowler glumly on the sideboard:
‘Gimme my dinner.’
1936.
