Once was every woman the witch
To ride a weed the ragwort road:
Devil to do whatever she would:
Each rosebud, every old bitch.

Did they bargain their bodies or no?
Proprietary the devil that
Went horsing on their every thought
When they scowled the strong and lucky low.

Dancing in Ireland nightly, gone
To Norway (the ploughboy bridled),
Nightlong under the blackamoor spraddled,
Back beside their spouse by dawn

As if they had dreamed all. Did they dream it?
Oh, our science says they did.
It was all wishfully dreamed in bed.
Small psychology would unseat it.

Bitches still sulk, rosebuds blow,
And we are deviled. And though these weep
Over our harms, who’s to know
Where their feet dance while their heads sleep?