What
if she kicks above her head, and wears but sparkling tights?
She’s
fair to see, and loveth me, and has her woman’s rights;
Although
her stage robe be so small, her heart is good and big,
And
beats as true ‘neath green and blue, as any other rig.
What
if she dances every night behind the footlight’s glare?
What
if a score of boys or more without a straggling hair
Sit
staring from the orchestra? It doesn’t spoil her art;
For
art it be, her dancing free, that captures every heart.
My
parents do not like her, and my sisters raise a fuss;
They
cannot see why men like me love such a gaudy huss.
They
paint and play, and chisel in stone, and sport a wealthy beau,
And
if art, she has a part, it’s very,
very low.
What
if she kicks above her head, and flits around in tights?
An
artist she, that loveth me, and she has her woman’s rights;
And
that her art is low at all, I never will agree;
With
ease she kicks just six foot six, what higher art could be?
Feb.
22, 1895
Pub.
in B. Courier, June 9, 1895
Sent
to N.Y. World Apr. 13, ’95, and supposing it lost, I sent it to B. Courier.
Accepted by N.Y. World, June 20, 1895.
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