And frugal housewives, strictly pennywise,
Cement burst jugs and make them healthy sooner.
But where’s the tinker-devil who will clout
Our cracked-up selves till they hold love once more?
Oh you can smooth your curlylocks, no doubt!
Look what a mess we’ve made on Life’s clean floor!
You can’t patch leaky clay. There are no cures.
And it was your fault, yours! “No, yours!” Yours! “Yours!”
P. P. C.—MADAM LIFE
All through the heavy plush of afternoon,