Misrepresentative Women

Misrepresentative Women
Harry Graham

Misrepresentative Women

Publishers’ Preface

Gentle Reader, who so patiently have waited
For such viands as your poet can provide,
(Which, as critics have occasionally stated,
Must be trying to a delicate inside,)
Once again are opportunities afforded
Of a banquet, or a déjeuner at least,
Once again your toleration is rewarded
By a literary feast!

You may think that Rudyard Kipling’s work is stronger,
Or that Chaucer’s may be rather more mature;
Byron’s lyrics are indubitably longer,
Robert Browning’s just a trifle more obscure;
But ’tis certain that no poems are politer,
Or more fitted for perusal in the home,
Than the verses of the unassuming writer
Of this memorable tome!

Austin Dobson is a daintier performer,
Andrew Lang is far more scholarly and wise,
Mr. Swinburne can, of course, be somewhat warmer,
Alfred Austin more amusing, if he tries;
But there’s no one in the world (and well you know it!)
Who can emulate the bard of whom we speak,
For the literary methods of our poet
Are admittedly unique!

Tho’ he shows no sort of penitence at breaking
Ev’ry rule of English grammar and of style,
(Not a rhyme is too atrocious for his making,
Not a metre for his purpose is too vile!)
Tho’ his treatment is essentially destructive,
And his taste a thing that no one can admire,
There is something incontestably seductive
In the music of his lyre!

Gentle Reader, some apologies are needed
For depositing this volume on your desk,
Since the author has undoubtedly exceeded
All the limits of legitimate burlesque,
And we look with very genuine affection
To a Public who, for better or for worse,
Will relieve us of this villainous collection
Of abominable verse!

Eve

I always love to picture Eve,
Whatever captious critics say,
As one who was, as I believe,
The nicest woman of her day;
Attractive to the outward view,
And such a perfect lady too!

Unselfish, – that one can’t dispute,
Recalling her intense delight,
When she acquired some novel fruit,
In giving all her friends a bite;
Her very troubles she would share
With those who happened to be there.

Her wardrobe, though extremely small,
Sufficed a somewhat simple need;
She was, if anything at all,
A trifle underdressed, indeed,
And never visited a play
In headgear known as “matinée.”

Possessing but a single beau,
With only one affaire de cœur,
She promptly married, as we know,
The man who first proposed to her;
Not for his title or his pelf,
But simply for his own sweet self.

He loved her madly, at first sight;
His callow heart was quite upset;
He thought her nearly, if not quite,
The sweetest soul he’d ever met;
She found him charming – for a man,
And so their young romance began.

Their wedding was a trifle tame —
A purely family affair —
No guests were asked, no pressmen came
To interview the happy pair;
No crowds of curious strangers bored them,
The “Eden Journal” quite ignored them.

They had the failings of their class,
The faults and foibles of the youthful;
She was inquisitive, alas!
And he was – not exactly truthful;