There was a movement of Poppy's right eyelid which in a larger woman would have been called a wink; in Poppy it appeared as an exaggerated twinkle.

It was greeted with a roar of rapturous applause.

Then Poppy, with her hands on her hips, and her head on one side, raised her Cockney voice in a high-pitched song, executing between each verse a slow, swinging chassee to the stage Humorist with the concertina.
"Oh, she's my fancy girl, With 'er 'air all outer curl, 'Ooks orf, eyes orf, petticoats all awry.
For then she isn't shy; She gives 'er bangs a twirl, And it's--'Kiss me quick!'-- and--'That's the Trick!' -- and--( _dim_)--'_Wouldn't_ yer like to try ?'" When the stage Humorist with the concertina stopped chasseeing, and put his finger to his nose, and observed, "That's wot you might call a dim innuender," Rickman could have kicked him.
(_cresc._), 'But got up fit ter kill, In 'er velverteen an' frill, It's--'Ands orf!'-- 'Heyes orf!'-- 'Fetch yer one in the heye!'-- A strollin' down the 'Igh, With 'Enery, Alf an' Bill, It's--'None er that!'-- and 'Mind my 'at!'-- and (_fortissimo_)--'WOULDN'T yer like to try!'" "To try! To try!" Her chassee quickened ever so little, doubled on itself, and became a tortuous thing.

Poppy's feet beat out the measure that is danced on East End pavements to the music of the concertina.
In the very abandonment of burlesque Poppy remained an artist, and her dance preserved the gravity of the original ballet, designed for performance on a flagstone.

Now it unfolded; it burst its bounds; it was a rhythmic stampede.