Classic Poem

All night long the darling daughter squirms
Wild where the Toddle and the Shimmy vie
In making passion virtuous and correct,
That nature may be told just one more lie.

Her mother is a lorgnette scanning all
The eligible men upon the floor:
She thinks of what their great-grand fathers did,
Eschewing her darling might become their whore.

A spade is not a spade, and it is just
That any tremulous twisting of her lips
Should be mere prettiness, or call it grace
The canto amoroso of her hips.