I came across this sharply witty riddle-poem written by Elizabeth Francis Amherst, (c. 1716 – 1779), an English poet and amateur naturalist who remained largely unpublished during her lifetime. Her works primarily circulated in manuscript (a polite and common way for women writers to maintain their reputation and share their work), although a few were published anonymously.
This poem, “A Prize Riddle on Herself when 24” is a mood. I love it.
I'M a strange composition as e'er was in nature, Being wondrously studious and yet a great prater. Retirement and quiet I love beyond measure, Yet always am ready for parties of pleasure. I can cry till I laugh, or laugh till I cry, Yet few have a temper more equal than I. My shape is but clumsy, I see it and know it, Yet always am dancing and skipping to show it. My visage is round, just the shape of a bowl, With a great pair of grey eyes resembling an owl. My nose and my mouth are none of the least, Though one serves me to smell and the other to taste. What I gain in these features makes up for no chin, But here's my misfortune, my smile's a broad grin. My temper is rather addicted to satire, And yet, without vanity, fraught with good nature. My friends I can laugh at, but most at myself. I've no inclination for titles or pelf; And this I can vouch for, believe me or nay, To my friend's my own interest does always give sway. I really am cleanly, but yet my discourse, If you're squeamish, may make you as sick as a horse. Without any voice, I can sing you a song, And though I grow old, I shall always be young. I put on assurance, though nat'rally shy, And most people love me, though none can tell why. I'm not yet disposed of: come bid for a blessing, For those who first guess me shall have me for guessing.
We got a chiropractor in this group?my back killing me