Is no thinking thing here
but the peepinghouse?

Round it goes
from sea to shore—rounda coda,
no knowing, no browbeating—
only a hoedown
for the adamses and damses,

looking rounda coda
the wailing goes
awagginawaning
along the wall

but there she bares all
to what is not there,
the musey musik
makes you trot and drop,

so rainruns on—
her lastofall.