Oh, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good,
Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would.
The little chills run up and down my spine whene-er we meet,
Though she seems a gentle creature, and she-s very trim and neat.

And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin,
But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin.
And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can-t be said.
If you seek for what has hurt you - why, you cannot find the head.

But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain.
If anybody asks you why, you really can-t explain!
A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt,
Yet when it-s sticking in your flesh you-re wretched till it-s out.

She-s wonderfully observing - when she meets a pretty girl,
She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl;
And she is so sympathetic to her friend who-s much admires,
She is often heard remarking, -Dear, you look so worn and tired.-

And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed
The new dress I was airing with a woman-s natural pride,
And she said, -Oh, how becoming! - and then gently added, -it
Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.-

Then she said, -If you heard me yester eve, I-m sure, my friend,
You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.-
And she left me with the feeling - most unpleasant, I aver -
That the whole world would despise me is it hadn-t been for her.

Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way
She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day.
And the hat that was imported (and cost me half a sonnet) ,
With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet.

She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for a thrust;
Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust.
Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin
To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin!