Apocalypse

Countess Slob, before the mirror,
In acute distress,
Tries a hundred lovely hats
To aggravate her dress.
Priceless flowers, and luscious pearls,
Shoes they will adore:
Not that one, Mabel—Lady X.
Has worn it once before.

We're going to a party, friends,
A party in the crypt.
We're going to a party, friends,
And must be well equipped.

The Count is worried: Nietzsche and Kant
Have somehow lost their thrill.
Yet at the zero hour, with zeal,
He swots Spionza still.
Visibly the Count exudes
A dim religious light,
And from his library retires,
Completely erudite.

We're going to a party, friends,
A party in the crypt.
We're going to a party, friends,
And must be well equipped.

Ronald L. Meek