  THEY coaxed me up a hundred stairs, They lured me to their den, For me they laid their artful snares— Those photographing men. They dragged me to a room of glass Beneath a blazing sun, I thought I should have died. Alas! I’m nearly fourteen stone! They saw their victim pant and blow, They heard him cry, “I melt!” But ne’er a one for all my woe One grain of pity felt. They seized my head and screwed it round, And fixed it in a vice, And simpered when they had me bound, “That pose is very nice! “Look up—look up, and wear a smile; Look pleasant, if you please. You must keep still a little while; Just straighten up your knees.” ’Tis thus they jeer and jibe at me As, faint and hot, I try An inch before my nose to see With sunstroke in my eye. I think of all the bitter wrongs My later life has known; I writhe beneath Fate’s cruel thongs, I knit my brow and groan. And still with many a smile and smirk The artist trips about, And gives my chin a little jerk And sticks my elbows out. Ye gods, am I a grinning ape To pose and posture thus? Am I a man in human shape Or turkey that they truss? My head is free; with fiendish mirth I raise a vengeful hand, And dash the camera to earth, And fell the iron stand. I take the artist by the throat And pin him to the wall, And jerk his chin and tear his coat, And hold his head in thrall. I bid the trembling victim smile, I cry, “Be gay and laugh, And in the very latest style I’ll take your photograph!” I twisted till I broke his neck, I baked him in the sun; I left the room an awful wreck, And then the deed was done. They held an inquest on the bits; Ye photographing crew, Before to you the writer sits Just read that inquest through. |
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