The Foreigner
Av: Harriet Monroe
You said so, and laughed
At my old-fashioned hose,
At the cut of my hair,
At the length of my nose.
To carve it to pattern
I think you propose.
Your pardon, young Sir,
But my nose and my sword
Are proving themselves
In quite perfect accord.
I grieve to have spotted
Your shirt. On my word !
And hullo! You Bully!
That blade's not a stick
To slash right and left,
And my skull is too thick
To be cleft with such cuffs
Of a sword. Now a lick
Down the side of your face,
What a pretty, red line !
Tell the taverns that scar
Was an honor. Don't whine
That a stranger has marked you.
The tree's there, You Swine!
