The "Viduate Dame"
by
‘Tis the widow of Thomas Blythe,
And she goeth upon the spree,
And red are cheeks of the bystanders
For her acts are light and free.
In a seven-ounce costume
The widow of Thomas Blythe,
Y-perched high on the window ledge,
The difficult can-can tryeth.
Ten constables they essay
To bate the dame’s halloing.
With the widow of Thomas Blythe
Their hands are overflowing,
And they cry: “Call the National Guard
To quell this parlous muss–
For all of the widows of Thomas Blythe
Are upon the spree and us!”
O long shall the eerie tale be told
By that posse’s surviving tithe;
And with tears bedewed he’ll sing this rude
Ballad of the widow of Thomas Blythe.