 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
THE PRIZE-FIGHTER TO HIS MISTRESS
O, believe not the party who says love is bought,
Nor lend thy fond “lug” when his tale he'd begin;
But bid him behold thy dear “mug” on this breast,
This “bunch of fives” clasping thy own lovely “fin.”
Nor lend thy fond “lug” when his tale he'd begin;
But bid him behold thy dear “mug” on this breast,
This “bunch of fives” clasping thy own lovely “fin.”
Or show him the “home-brewed” that flushes thy “nob,”
When in thy “jug-handle” my love I recite,
And then if his “goggles” are not Cupid's own,
He'll reel to his corner at that “draft at sight.”
When in thy “jug-handle” my love I recite,
And then if his “goggles” are not Cupid's own,
He'll reel to his corner at that “draft at sight.”
What “punishment” waits on the cove that deceives,
How “soggy” the “smasher” that gets him so prime,
When he “throws up the sponge” at the ultimate round,
And Eternity calls—and he can't “come to Time.”
How “soggy” the “smasher” that gets him so prime,
When he “throws up the sponge” at the ultimate round,
And Eternity calls—and he can't “come to Time.”
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Yet, Mary, dear Mary, such love is not mine,
But “mawley” in “mawley” together we'll tread;
The “belt” for the cestus of Venus I'll change,
And know but one “Ring”—in the ring we are wed.
But “mawley” in “mawley” together we'll tread;
The “belt” for the cestus of Venus I'll change,
And know but one “Ring”—in the ring we are wed.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |