Blackest bank balances,
Silken drapes in silver-tip—
‘Neath fleekest matched valances:
Verily, who’d give a chevroned flip?
If I trip on peace merrily,
With half-grasp o’ my challenges,
And seemed a day before
To be ne’er the chipper,
It’ll be ’cause that swank slipper
Chafed like a rasp
And, thankfully too-perfect, didn’t fit.
Poetry: On Ingalls’ Prairie
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