Page 198 - YB1904

The Heels. By Edgar Allan Poetess, '04. Hear the clatter of the heels, Wooden heels. What a sense of frippery their thoughtless wearer feels! How they patter, patter , patter, O'er the highly polished floor, While their owner, struggling madly, Sees a haven-O, so gladly!- In the mat that haply lies before the door, Making tread, tread, tread, In a sort of mortal dread, Of the diabolic power one intuitively feels In the heels, heels, heels, heels, heels, heels, heels, In the potency of purely Paris heels. Hear the pounding of the heels, Cuban heels. What a strong, reliant mind their well-know sound reveals! From their low'ring leather heights How they clamor of delights, Pleasures future, pleasures past, And present too, Of the happy time when last To the drug store they have passed, Goal so dear- o from out that soda fountain Joys gush forth by which a mountain J94