Shapes of Clay

Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore

Was a dame of superior mind,

With a gown which, modestly fitting before,

Was greatly puffed up behind.

The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned

With an inspiration bright:

It magnified seven diameters and

Was remarkably nice and light.

It was made of rubber and edged with lace

And riveted all with brass,

And the whole immense interior space

Inflated with hydrogen gas.

The ladies all said when she hove in view

Like the round and rising moon:

"She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true,

And men called her the Captive Balloon.

To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day

She went and she said: "O dear!

If I leave off this what will people say?

I shall look so uncommonly queer!"

So a costume she had accordingly made

To take it all nicely in,

And when she appeared in that suit arrayed,

She was greeted with many a grin.

Proudly and happily looking around,

She waded out into the wet,

But the water was very, very profound,

And her feet and her forehead met!

As her bubble drifted away from the shore,

On the glassy billows borne,

All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore?

I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!"

Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot,

Till it burst with a sullen roar,

And the sea like oil closed over the spot—

Farewell, O Mehitable Moore!