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Rudyard Kipling - My Rival
Work rating: Medium

I go to concert, party, ball —
  What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
  And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
  They burn before her shrine;
And that`s because I`m seventeen
  And She is forty-nine.

I cannot check my girlish blush,
  My color comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
  And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
  And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
  Is fixed at forty-nine.

I wish I had Her constant cheek;
  I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
  Not quite the proper thing.
I`m very gauche and very shy,
  Her jokes aren`t in my line;
And, worst of all, I`m seventeen
  While She is forty-nine.

The young men come, the young men go
  Each pink and white and neat,
She`s older than their mothers, but
  They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her `rickshaw wheels —
  None ever walk by mine;
And that`s because I`m seventeen
  And She is foty-nine.

She rides with half a dozen men,
  (She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
I trot along the Mall alone;
  My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don`t help to fill my programme-card,
  And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
  Would I were forty-nine!

She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
  And "sweet retiring maid."
I`m always at the back, I know,
  She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
  "Cast" lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
  Nineteen to foty-nine.

But even She must older grow
  And end Her dancing days,
She can`t go on forever so
  At concerts, balls and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
  Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that She`ll be eighty-one
  When I am forty-nine.
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