The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.