V. Midnight

Again (see chapter on The Ball)
The Boldest Metaphor grows tame;
Superlatives abjectly crawl
Back to their lexicon in shame,
And Synonyms in shrieking chorus
Take refuge in the deep Thesaurus.

But every cloud that bars the sun
They say with silverwear is lined;
And tho’ they felt they were Undone,
Their Highnesses were cheered to find
At midnight when their Robes took wings,
They kept their—well, their Other Things.

Perchance, Dear Reader, you have noted
In that Department which to Trade is
By Monthly Magazines devoted,
The Pleasant Gentlemen and Ladies
Whose Union Suits our souls bewitch—
The Simple Flannels of the Rich.

Even arrayed as one of these,
In Homespun stood the Royal Twain,
While people cried, on bended knees,
“Long live their Majesties! who deign
Thus by example to Restore
Our Woolen Industry of Yore!”

Thro’ all the Land the Tidings sped
From Door to Door, from Wife to Wife,
Thro’ all the Land the Fashion spread
For Woolen and the Simple Life.
New looms sprang up on every hand
And shepherds prospered in the land.

Poor God-mamma, ’twas her last caper;
One night to throw some Light about
She changed herself into a Taper,
And Cinderella blew her out.
The Princess then divorced the Prince,
And Both lived Happy Ever Since.