Sonnets of a Chorus Girl (Sonnet 11)

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The Scrap

IT'S time for us to scrap; I guess I'll blame
Him for some fault and pout, and make him fear
I've some new Johnny strung, or purty near--
To score in love you've got to play the game;
Before he comes to-night, I think I'll frame
Up some excuse to clog his runnin' gear;
I'll make him bug by givin' him a steer
That some one else has came and jumped his claim.

Yes, that's the dope; I'll play the cruel part
And drop around where him and me can meet;
I'll flirt with brokers' clerks and let him smart,
And when at last he grovels at my feet
I'll chuck myself against his achin' heart
And let him press his glad lips where I eat.