'MARY, PITY WOMEN!'
You call yourself a man,
For all you used to swear,
An' leave me, as you can,
My certain shame to bear?
I 'ear! You do not care—
You done the worst you know.
I 'ate you, grinnin' there. . . .
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!
Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over—
Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to your lover!
What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
It are'nt no false alarm,
The finish to your fun;
You—you 'ave brung the 'arm,
