Miss Gee by Auden

Miss Gee

Let me tell you a little story About Miss Edith Gee;

She lived in Clevedon Terrace At number 83.

She'd a slight squint in her left eye, Her lips they were thin and small, She had narrow sloping shoulders And she had no bust at all.

She'd a velvet hat with trimmings, And a dark grey serge costume;

She lived in Clevedon Terrace In a small bed-sitting room.

She'd a purple mac for wet days,

A green umbrella too to take,

She'd a bicycle with shopping basket And a harsh back-pedal break.

The Church of Saint Aloysius Was not so very far;

She did a lot of knitting,

Knitting for the Church Bazaar.

Miss Gee looked up at the starlight And said, 'Does anyone care That I live on Clevedon Terrace

On one hundred pounds a year'

She dreamed a dream one evening That she was the Queen of France And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius Asked Her Majesty to dance.

But a storm blew down the palace,

She was biking through a field of corn,

And a bull with the face of the Vicar Was charging with lowered horn.

She could feel his hot breath behind her, He was going to overtake;

And the bicycle went slower and slower Because of that back-pedal break.

Summer made the trees a picture,

Winter made them a wreck;

She bicycled to the evening service With her clothes buttoned up to her neck.

She passed by the loving couples,

She turned her head away;

She passed by the loving couples,

And they didn't ask her to stay.

Miss Gee sat in the side-aisle,

She heard the organ play;

And the choir sang so sweetly

At the ending of the day,

Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle,

She knelt down on her knees;

'Lead me not into temptation But make me a good girl, please.'

The days and nights went by her Like waves round a Cornish wreck;

She bicycled down to the doctor

With her clothes buttoned up to her neck.

She bicycled down to the doctor,

And rang the surgery bell;

'O, doctor, I've a pain inside me,

And I don't feel very well.¹

Doctor Thomas looked her over,

And then he looked some more;

Walked over to his wash-basin,

Said,'Why didn't you come before?¹

Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner,

Though his wife was waiting to ring, Rolling his bread into pellets;

Said, 'Cancer's a funny thing.