I couldn’t get to sleep a few nights ago. My thoughts wandered hither and yon like balls in a pinball game. (Remember pinball machines? Yeah, you’re old, too!) St. Jude was the first nebulous thought. Not the hospital, the actual saint. He’s the patron saint of lost causes which was what I was thinking about the elusive sleep I was looking for. From there it was thoughts about the New Orleans Saints and Drew Brees. He’s a cutie and I hope he doesn’t end up a man-whore like Brett Favre. Brett Farve brought to mind the Nickelback song, “Figured You Out” (I like your pants around your feet …) which led to memories of a road trip to see Nickelback in New Orleans. I really like New Orleans. From there I thought about being in the Superdome a year after Katrina and the tour of the Ninth Ward and all the destruction that was still evident. Thoughts of destruction brought to mind the hotel room I shared with three other women on a later trip to The Big Easy for Slumber Parties. From there, with visions of vibrators, a very overweight bed-mate, the loss of the rest of my 6-pack of Blackened Voodoo Ale and being locked out of the bathroom while a roommate had sex (I shoulda been having sex!), danced in my head while I remembered a poem one of my college professors given as a dramatic reading to the class. I'm now going to share it with you ~
Five Hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in Dressing;
The Goddess from her Chamber issues,
Array'd in Lace, Brocades and Tissues.
, who found the Room was void,
Stole in, and took a strict Survey,
Of all the Litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the Matter clear,
An Inventory follows here.
And first a dirty Smock appear'd,
Beneath the Arm-pits well besmear'd.
, the Rogue, display'd it wide,
And turn'd it round on every Side.
On such a Point few Words are best,
bids us guess the rest;
But swears how damnably the Men lie,
In calling Celia
sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces,
The various Combs for various Uses,
Fill'd up with Dirt so closely fixt,
No Brush could force a way betwixt.
A Paste of Composition rare,
Sweat, Dandriff, Powder, Lead
A Forehead Cloth with Oyl upon't
To smooth the Wrinkles on her Front
Here Allum Flower
to stop the Steams,
Exhal'd from sour unsavoury Streams,
There Night-gloves made of Tripsy's
Bequeath'd by Tripsy
when she dy'd,
With Puppy Water, Beauty's Help
Distill'd from Tripsy
's darling Whelp
and Vials plac'd,
Some fill'd with washes, some with Paste,
Some with Pomatum
, Paints and Slops,
And Ointments good for scabby Chops.
by a filthy Bason stands,
Fowl'd with the Scouring of her Hands;
The Bason takes whatever comes
The Scrapings of her Teeth and Gums,
A nasty Compound of all Hues,
For here she spits, and here she spues.
But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon
When he beheld and smelt the Towels,
Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd
With Dirt, and Sweat, and Ear-Wax grim'd.
No Object Strephon
's Eye escapes,
Here Pettycoats in frowzy
Nor be the Handkerchiefs forgot
All varnish'd o'er with Snuff and Snot.
The Stockings, why shou'd I expose,
Stain'd with the Marks of stinking Toes;
Or greasy Coifs and Pinners
slept at least a Week in?
A Pair of Tweezers next he found
To pluck her Brows in Arches round,
Or Hairs that sink the Forehead low,
Or on her Chin like Bristles grow.
The Virtues we must not let pass,
's magnifying Glass.
When frighted Strephon
cast his Eye on't
It shew'd the Visage of a Gyant.
A Glass that can to Sight disclose,
The smallest Worm in Celia
And faithfully direct her Nail
To squeeze it out from Head to Tail;
For catch it nicely by the Head,
It must come out alive or dead.
will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the Chest?
That careless Wench! no Creature warn her
To move it out from yonder Corner;
But leave it standing full in Sight
For you to exercise your Spight.
In vain, the Workman shew'd his Wit
With Rings and Hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this Disguise,
A Cabinet to vulgar Eyes;
ventur'd to look in,
Resolv'd to go thro' thick and thin;
He lifts the Lid, there needs no more,
He smelt it all the Time before.
As from within Pandora
op'd the Locks,
A sudden universal Crew
Of humane Evils upwards flew;
He still was comforted to find
at last remain'd behind;
lifting up the Lid,
To view what in the Chest was hid.
The Vapours flew from out the Vent,
cautious never meant
The Bottom of the Pan to grope,
And fowl his Hands in Search of Hope
O never may such vile Machine
Be once in Celia
's Chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
"Those Secrets of the hoary deep
As Mutton Cutlets, Prime of Meat,
Which tho' with Art you salt and beat,
As Laws of Cookery require,
And toast them at the clearest Fire;
If from adown the hopful Chops
The Fat upon a Cinder drops,
To stinking Smoak it turns the Flame
Pois'ning the Flesh from whence it came;
And up exhales a greasy Stench,
For which you curse the careless Wench;
So Things, which must not be exprest,
When plumpt into the reeking Chest;
Send up an excremental Smell
To taint the Parts from whence they fell.
The Pettycoats and Gown perfume,
Which waft a Stink round every Room.
Thus finishing his grand Survey,
Repeating in his amorous Fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
But Vengeance, Goddess never sleeping
Soon punish'd Strephon for his Peeping;
His foul Imagination links
Each Dame he sees with all her Stinks:
And, if unsav'ry Odours fly,
Conceives a Lady standing by:
All Women his Description fits,
And both Idea's jump like Wits:
By vicious Fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in Contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the Charms of Female Kind;
Should I the Queen of Love refuse,
Because she rose from stinking Ooze?
To him that looks behind the Scene,
Satira's but some pocky Quean
in her Glory shows,
would but stop his Nose;
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her Ointments, Daubs, and Paints and Creams,
Her Washes, Slops, and every Clout,
With which he makes so foul a Rout;)
He soon would learn to think like me,
And bless his ravisht Sight to see
Such Order from Confusion sprung,
Such gaudy Tulips rais'd from Dung.
I probably should have taken a sleeping pill.