“The Lesser Evil”

• Empty as death and slow as pain
• The days went by on leaden feet;
• And parson's week had come again
• As I walked down the little street.
• Without, the weary doves were calling,
• The sun burned on the banks of mud;
• Within, old maids were caterwauling
• A dismal tale of thorns and blood.
• I thought of all the church bells ringing
• In towns that Christian folks were in;
• I heard the godly maidens singing;
• I turned into the house of sin.
• The house of sin was dark & mean,
• With dying flowers round the door;
• They spat their betel juice between
• The rotten bamboos of the floor.
• Why did I come, the woman cried,
• so seldom to her beds of ease?
• When I was not, her spirit died,
• And would I give her ten rupees.
• The weeks went by, and many a day
• That black-haired woman did implore
• Me as I hurried on my way
• To come more often than before.
• The days went by like dead leaves falling
• And parson's week came round again.
• Once more devout old maids were bawling
• Their ugly rhymes of death and pain.
• The woman waited for me there
• As down the little street I trod;
• And musing upon her oily hair,
• I turned into the house of God.