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To a Friend Writing on Cabaret Dancers

""Breathe not the word to-morrow in her ears."
Vir Quidem, on Dancers.

Good "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