She was so esthetic and culchud,
Just doted on Wagner and Gluck;
And claimed that perfection existed
In some foreign English bred duke.
She raved over Browning and Huxley,
And Tyndal, and Darwin, and Taine;
And talked about flora and fauna,
And many things I can't explain.
Of Madame Blavatski, the occult,
Theosophy, art, and then she
Spoke of the Cunead Sibyl
And Venus de Med-i-che.
She spoke of the why and the wherefore,
But longed for the whither and whence;
And she said yclept, yip, yap and yonder
Were used in alliterative sense.
Well, I like a fool sat dumfounded,
And wondered what she did n't know
'T was 10 when I bade her good evening,
I thought it in season to go.
I passed her house yesterday evening,
I don't know, but it seems to me,
She was chasing around in the kitchen,
And getting things ready for tea.
I heard her sweet voice calling: "Mother,"
It was then that I felt quite abashed,
For she yelled, "How shall I fix the 'taters,
Fried, lionized, baked, biled, or mashed?"