Poems of Pleasure — A Pin

A PIN.

Oh, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good, Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.

The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.

And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said.

If you seek for what has hurt you--why, you cannot find the head!

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain.

If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain!

A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt, Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh you’re wretched till it’s out.

She is wonderfully observing--when she meets a pretty girl, She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl;

And she is so sympathetic to her friend who’s much admired, She is often heard remarking, “Dear, you look so worn and tired.

” And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride, And she said, “Oh, how becoming!

” and then gently added, “it Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.

” Then she said, “If you had heard me yester eve, I’m sure, my friend, You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.

” And she left me with the feeling--most unpleasant, I aver-- That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’t been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.

And the hat that was imported (and which cost me half a sonnet), With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for a thrust.

Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust, Oh!

I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin!