The Ballad of Miss Pickle
She skipped to the balls
In her crinoline gown,
With verdurous falls
In the drapes of her crown.
She rustled and twirled
As she danced with their gaze,
And pleatings unfurled
In a deep-lustred prase.
Hers was no ruby or aquamarine –
The glorious girl in the emerald green.
All season she danced
In her favourite hue –
Her eyes were enhanced,
And her blossoming grew.
Her costume was styled
To flicker the room –
The beaux she beguiled,
Her shamrock in bloom.
Hers was no palette of altering scene –
The glorious girl in the emerald green.
The following year
As the bucks met to fool,
They longed she’d appear –
Their taffeta jewel.
But salon and do
Were all lacking her shade –
They felt far too blue
And in want of her jade.
Hers was no presence, but absentee queen –
The glorious girl in the emerald green.
Then shocking they heard
Of her sudden demise –
The poison transferred
From the arsenite dyes.
She wilted last winter,
She couldn’t have known
How deadly the tints were
In which she was sewn.
Hers was no longer, a tragic eighteen –
The glorious girl in the emerald green.
A young woman dies
In much retching and bile
To set off her eyes
And to brighten her smile.
Her end was a blur
With her lights in distress,
But do not blame her
For the tinge of her dress.
Hers was no moral to vanity’s preen –
The glorious girl in the emerald green.
She skips to the balls
In her crinoline gown,
And her glowing enthrals
With a growing renown.
Remember her this way
From bodice to hem –
A verdant display
From a radiant gem.
A shimmer and sparkle, a ripening sheen –
The glorious girl in the emerald green.
More commonly referred to as Paris Green, but the rhythm of ’emerald’ suited me better.
Rhyming Couplets 