There is no cure for Daphne Demure,

by day she wears grey flannel frocks and flat shoes

concealed with a frown, a cap and black gown,

her hair pinned back in a bun.

 

She walks to the left of corridors,

her mind full of brass, horn and trumpet.

Remembering this mornings crumpet,

her smile's like a water melon slice.

 

Her daily allure is quarter to four, 

electric bells automaton, laced up shoes by the hundred,

pound the wooden floors to the reception doors

Halt! when Miss blows her whistle.

 

From the fifth floor Daphne Demure

stripped of her daily attire, slides down the bannister rail.

Brassy as the town hall clock, hops off the newel post.

Defiance rules O.K.

 

Her upturned umbrella with a six inch spike

pokes holes in the bowling green.

Keep off the grass? No way José!

It's a short-cut to her black Triumph Stag

Convertible!