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 Will be a stuffy, opulent sort of fungus Spread on both hands and on the up-pushed bosom— It juts like a shelf between the jowl and corset.

Have you, or I seen most of cabarets, good Hedgethorn?

Here's Pepita, tall and slim as an Egyptian mummy, Marsh-cranberries, the ribbed and angular pods Flare up with scarlet orange on stiff stalks And so Pepita flares on the crowded stage before our tables Or slithers about between the dishonest waiters—

And "rend la flamme" you know the deathless verses. I search the features, the avaricious features Pulled by the kohl and rouge out of resemblance— Six pence the object for a change of passion.

"Write me a poem." Come now, my dear Pepita, "-ita, bonita, chiquita," that's what you mean you advertising spade,