The Spoilsport

My familiar ghost again

    Comes to see what he can see,

Critic, son of Conscious Brain,

    Spying on our privacy.

 

Slam the window, bolt the door,

    Yet he’ll enter in and stay;

In to-morrow’s book he’ll score

    Indiscretions of to-day.

 

Whispered love and muttered fears,

    How their echoes fly about!

None escape his watchful ears,

    Every sigh might be a shout.

 

No kind words nor angry cries

    Turn away this grim spoilsport;

No fine lady’s pleading eyes,

    Neither love, nor hate, nor . . . port.

 

Critic wears no smile of fun,

    Speaks no word of blame nor praise,

Counts our kisses one by one,

    Notes each gesture, every phrase.

 

My familiar ghost again

    Stands or squats where suits him best;

Critic, son of Conscious Brain,

    Listens, watches, takes no rest.