A gypsy maiden, strangely wise, with dusky hair and midnight eyes, my
future life unveiled; she said she’d read the lines of fate for many
another trusting skate, and never yet had failed. She was a maid of
savage charms; great brazen rings were on her arms, and she had strings
of beads; with trinkets she was loaded down; the noisy colors of her
gown recalled no widow’s weeds. She told me I would live to be as rich
as Andy or John D., my dreams would all come true; I’d have a palace on
a hill, and vassals near to do my will, a yacht to sail the blue. And as
she told what blessings fine, what great rewards and gifts were mine, in
low and dulcet tones, her nimble fingers, ne’er at rest, got closer to
my checkered vest, and lifted seven bones. She touched me for my meager
roll, that poor misguided, heathen soul, but still her victim smiles;
she gave me dreams for half a day and took me with her to Cathay and the
enchanted isles. Her glamour caused me to forget a little while, the
strife and sweat, the city’s bricks and stones; she took my toilworn
soul abroad, and she is welcome to my wad—I still have seven bones.
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