The Butcher’s Daughter

“They also serve who only stand and weigh,”
My butcher told his lively daughter once.
Instead of managing the scales, she’d say
She liked to shimmy, shake, and play the dunce.
She never made a secret of her vices,
Which were many: boning tiny smelt,
Imbibing spirits and frozen fruit ices,
Making puppets out of yellow felt.
One morning we saw how the butcher wept
When she put on a puppet show with fish
Instead of meat. Oh, she was so adept
The audience was cowed, and my one wish,
When I beheld the butcher’s daughter’s show,
Was that her hands would find me, strong and slow.