Workplace Maenads

They gather in our near and nearer places,
Their eyes astir with their workplace commands,
And cut their weapons from their routine paces
But spit in tongues that offence understands.
They dance a secret dance that can’t be named
Between a roundelay and common jig;
So round and round they go, their movements framed
To end upon a squeal like skewered pig.
I’ve watched these women dead upon their rite
And seen their wounded eyes transferred on him
Who with his blood relieves some ancient slight,
And found it all amusingly quite grim.
But when they turned their bloody eyes on me,
My god, I fled with all virility.