Classic Poem

" PRECIOUS ! " says Mrs. Goog. And, " Love! " cries he,
And smacks his liar's lips against her face.
" Sweet Dove! " — and then they clinch in close embrace.
He's thirty-one, and she's turned fifty-three;
She makes him pet her when there's company.
" My Angel! " " Little Wife! " — and all men trace
The hatred crawling through his forced grimace;
Some day he'll kill her to be rich and free.

If I am on Goog's jury then, he'll hang;
I know just how he trapped the love-starved hag;
True, she caught him with coins that clinked and rang ...
But he — I've heard that saffron cheese-rind brag! —
" My own, my Dove! " " Come, kiss me, precious pet! " —
Kiss her, you crook; it is your life-work: Sweat!