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I always think of Agnes Blake,
Whenever I see an angel cake:
Darling, doting, shrinking Ness,
In her crisp straw hat and her flower dress.
I see her every week at church,
Two pews ahead on her pious perch.
And in my eyes she’s the peak of should-ness,
Ought-ness, Proper-ness, and Goodness
(I know I’d know, if I were she,
To spell the word “Pro-pry-a-ty”).
When I see a pup with eyes so wide,
Or a lone little lamb with a soft, white hide,
Or the first brave blossom to bloom in spring,
Or the sacred vow of a diamond ring,
Or a new-born babe, my mind soon goes
To Ness in her new-pressed Sunday clothes,
Her curls dropping down to her scalloped hem,
And her shining face like a brilliant gem,
Gold-ringed. It’s a wonder I keep from bolting—
To my mind they’re all equally revolting.