Black Beetles in Amber

'Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,

And she goeth upon the spree,

And red are cheeks of the bystanders

For her acts are light and free.

In a seven-ounce costume

The widow of Thomas Blythe,

Y-perched high on the window ledge,

The difficult can-can tryeth.

Ten constables they essay

To bate the dame's halloing.

With the widow of Thomas Blythe

Their hands are overflowing,

And they cry: "Call the National Guard

To quell this parlous muss—

For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe

Are upon the spree and us!"

O long shall the eerie tale be told

By that posse's surviving tithe;

And with tears bedewed he'll sing this rude

Ballàd of the widow of Thomas Blythe.