We'll take tea at the hour on brisk mountain walks, Plot routes around rivers to stalk the poor storks. Our balls are divine, so mellow, so swinging, We dance in formation accompanied by singing. Helping the poor in decrepit, old houses, Rearranging their rooms and sewing their blouses. We like nothing more than riding in carriages, Attending large dinners and arranging new marriages. Sneering at unfashionable gowns in the wings Is sport for us all. Oh! the pleasure it brings! But, trust us, I wouldn't, were not at all loyal, We would only give hoots if you were a royal. So leave us, believe us, we not worth the trouble, Stick to your incest, your bad shoes and rubble. Go back to your hazy, lost days and on your drugs, We get high on our back biting, bitching and hugs. When we're lost in the frenzy of clawing, cat fighting, Don't pity us, fools. We're not that exciting.
Emma, a novel by Jane Austin, was first published today in 1815.
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