THE WHIG-LADY TEACHER
You should have known Mrs. Robertson.
Thirteen waves on her shiny-red-wig,
Four-feet-nine with a purse made from a pig;
nails of a cat and a slap that hurt one.
She hated us, we laughed at the bun
Perched on back of her head like a fig.
She beamed over her Party's shindig,
Celebrating how Dewey had won.
A glorious day! For us... for Truman.
He won! As announced to our great cheer.
We all weren't for Truman, it was clear.
We watched her rant and rave in ruin.
If fit-to-be-tied, we'd volunteer.
Yes! In great number we had no fear.