Millicent Davis lived upstairs,
Millicent Davis, pale of skin,
dark of hair, with eyes like buttons.
Millicent was a perfect child.
I know; my mother told me so,
and so did Millicent.
Her hair was always combed and curled,
her dresses neat. My skirts were torn,
I chopped my hair with pinking shears.
One afternoon in every week
her mother came to tea with mine,
bringing Millicent, of course,
and Millicent’s favorite china doll.
They came downstairs in their Sunday best,
Millicent’s mother wearing a hat.
The china doll was bibbed in white.
Millicent carried a handkerchief
and sipped her tea and was polite.
Millicent was the teacher’s pet.
Millicent was good. She knew
the answer to every question asked.
Everything that Millicent said
was gospel truth. I lied a lot,
and wished that Millicent was dead-
and knew that I would roast in hell.