Yet a little more tight in her skirt,
The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched,
She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"
"Work, work, work.
In the broiling drive and row,
And work, work, work,
At the stifling crush and show.
And I'm so sick of it all,
That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk,
If he'd ask me—I would! For, after this,