Tell Madame Mooshka.
Confide in her.
Pretend you are a pretty silver bell, and carol to her sweetly;
She will not point out the deception.
For how long
Will you let yourself be a hollow tree,
A rotten hotel
For so many sets of eyes that are not your own?
They peer out and tremble at sight of Madame Mooshka;
She demands of them their names,
And they howl...
Do not waste Madame Mooshka's time.
When she asks to examine the facets you hide like guilty contraband,
Offer them up,
One at a time,
What they say about Madame Mooshka
Is that she has no patience for baked clay dolls,
Fingerless, in love with the piano and throwing themselves,
Weak and blubbering,
Across her smooth white keys.
If Madame Mooshka kisses you,
Don't sit there tilting in your chair like an old sack of flour.
Dance your tongue along her teeth, little swan ballerina!
Call the saints down from Heaven, to gasp;
Serve yourself to her on a silver tray
As if you were tea for the devil,
In the fair and fetching form
Of Madame Mooshka.