She walks in fugly, like her mother
With ill-fitting clothes and unflattering glasses;
And all that's worst of noses and asses
Meet in her face and her body:
Thus devolved as did her brother
To an eerie maternal copy.
One bump the more, one bulge the less,
Could not repair the lack of grace
Which whimpers in every dishwater tress,
Or sullenly scours o'er her face;
Where thoughts inanely dull express
How banal, how trite their dwelling-place.
And on that bed, and in that closet,
So dirty, so disgusting, so redolent,
Of reeking clothes, the rank deposits,
That tell of days full slothful spent,
A filthy sock, a slob who'll wear it,
A woman ever adolescent.