A sonnet about a piece of devised theater of which I heard tell.
She paced about, and merry was her stride;
She made an awful barking in her chest;
The subtle grace with which she seemed to glide
Made of the jarring noise a frightful jest.
“My soul is indivisible” she said
“To think of me in pieces is a lie.”
She held a glossy photo of her head
Which charming likeness served to catch the eye.
“You mustn’t think ‘I like her merry walk
But not as much her voice’—don’t cut me so!
My steps express the same thing as my talk.
If you cut one, the other too will go.”
She paused then, held her picture to my view,
Then tore off part and said “This bit’s for you.”
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