She crouches in the British Museum,

Cowering shyly from visitors come

To admire her there, warily bathing,

And startled without a stitch of clothing.

Covering her blushes as best she can,

With her arms and hands strategically placed;

Staring as they progress,

Wandering on their pedestrian plan

Pensively pausing as they fondly faced

This beautifully sculpted Roman goddess.

 

For two thousand years she has held that pose,

Modestly crouching on her marble toes;

Wanting so to hide from those prying eyes,

Waiting till they’ve gone before she can rise.

But wait! Maybe I have got it all wrong;

Perhaps she has planned things differently

To what we had surmised

It could be she isn’t hiding from the throng

But looking over her shoulder to see

The male statue nakedly compromised.