The Schizoid
"I shall cut off your right digits!"
And the fine red-haired girl fidgets!
Not in early teens, now Eighteen:
Should with success run a canteen...
But Joyce before speaker just trembles,
Every fresh slipped threat Shock resembles;
No thoughts of a leg being simply pulled,
To flee not from the scene herself fooled;
For all her friends still holding tea cups,
No counting of the present grown-ups,
The scratched fears on their lit-up faces
A comic one with all its traces...
Already a Joyce tasting torture:
Her just slashed fingers she could picture...
Soon, pleas to her friends to save the life
Of one who would soonest be a wife:
"From the Enemy, please, snatch death's knife!"
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