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Or take the intaglio, my fat great-uncle's heirloom:
Cupid, astride a phallus with two wings,
Swinging a cat-o'-nine-tails.
No. Pepita,
I have seen through the crust.
I don't know what you look like
But your smile pulls one way
and your painted grin another,
While that cropped fool,
that tom-boy who can't earn her living.
Come, come to-morrow,
To-morrow in ten years at the latest,
She will be drunk in the ditch, but you, Pepita,
Will be quite rich, quite plump, with pug-bitch features,
With a black tint staining your cuticle,
Prudent and svelte Pepita.
"Poète, writ me a poème!"
Spanish and Paris, love of the arts part of your

Euhenia, in short skirts, slaps her wide stomach,
Pulls up a roll of fat for the pianist,
"Pauvre femme maigre!" she says.
He sucks his chop bone,
That some one else has paid for,
grins up an amiable grin,
Explains the decorations.