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"Hedgethorn," for we'll anglicize your name Until the last slut's hanged and the last pig disemboweled, Seeing your wife is charming and your child Sings in the open meadow—at least the kodak says so— My good fellow, you, on a cabaret silence And the dancers, you write a sonnet, Say "Forget To-morrow," being of all men The most prudent, orderly, and decorous!

"Pepita" has no to-morrow, so you write.

Pepita has such to-morrows: with the hands puffed out, The pug-dog's features encrusted with tallow Sunk in a frowsy collar—an unbrushed black. She will not bathe too often, but her jewels