les belles dames du temps jadis

Where's Juliet, that Italian dame,
whom Shakespeare gave immortal fame?
Where's Gloriana, the bard's great Queen?
It's a long time since ever she was seen.
Where's Ninon whose memoirs seem to burn?
None of these ladies now will ever return.
Where's the Armouress? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Aphra Behn, who once so fine did write?
Where's Milton's wife, who the great poet did spite?
Where's Lady Winchelsea? I must enquire.
It seems that all have gone into the fire.
Where's Fanny Burney, who though rather short,
gave finest service to the King at court?
Where's that barmaid? And, as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's George Sand, who disguised as a man,
seduced both women and that chap Chopin?
Where's George Eliot, who, and it's a loss,
covered up the name of Mary Ann Cross?
Where's Harriet Stowe, who thought slavery a sin
and told us all in Uncle Tom's Cabin?
Where's that hot whore? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Where's Hanna Arendt, who against the night
looked to the ancient Greeks for proper light?
Where's Beauvoir, who continues still to vex
all sexists who must read The Second Sex
Where's Angela Carter, she who lightly wrote
such things as many men would blush to quote?
Where's Anaïs Nin? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?

Princess, who sits and watches at the gate,
keep us from falling into most ignoble fate.
We wish we'd known great ladies such as these,
but Dame Nature has set us as she must please.
Where's dear Mae West? And as I wend,
where are the snows of last week-end?