Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/50

48 Such a wicked little flask: Vitriol—ugh! the beastly stuff.

Now look back beside the bar. See yon curled and scented beau, Puffing at a fine cigar— Sale espèce de maquereau. Well (of course, it’s all surmise), It’s for him she holds her place; When he passes she will rise, Dash the vitriol in his face.

Quick they’ll carry him away, Pack him in a Red Cross car; Her they’ll hurry, so they say, To the cells of St. Lazare. What will happen then, you ask? What will all the sequel be? Ah! Imagination’s task Isn’t easy… let me see…

She will go to jail, no doubt, For a year, or maybe two; Then as soon as she gets out Start her bawdy life anew. He will lie within a ward, Harmless as a man can be, With his face grotesquely scarred, And his eyes that cannot see.

Then amid the city’s din He will stand against a wall.