Only a dancing girl, br With an unromantic style, br With borrowed colour and curl, br With fixed mechanical smile, br With many a hackneyed wile, br With ungrammatical lips, br And corns that mar her trips. br br Hung from the "flies" in air, br She acts a palpable lie, br She's as little a fairy there br As unpoetical I! br I hear you asking, Why - br Why in the world I sing br This tawdry, tinselled thing? br br No airy fairy she, br As she hangs in arsenic green br From a highly impossible tree br In a highly impossible scene br (Herself not over-clean). br For fays don't suffer, I'm told, br From bunions, coughs, or cold. br br And stately dames that bring br Their daughters there to see, br Pronounce the "dancing thing" br No better than she should be, br With her skirt at her shameful knee, br And her painted, tainted phiz: br Ah, matron, which of us is? br br (And, in sooth, it oft occurs br That while these matrons sigh, br Their dresses are lower than hers, br And sometimes half as high; br And their hair is hair they buy, br And they use their glasses, too, br In a way she'd blush to do.