Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

In such a slimy still ! To frig you till one chilled you ; To damp you till you mildew : To fuck you till one filled you, Sweet cunt, if spunk could fill : — To hunt a crab and lose him Between your twat and bosom, Your bubbies’ coppery blossom, Between your hips and hocks : To say of clap “ What is it ? ” To laugh at syphilis, it Is nothing ; we can kiss it And it’s no longer pox : — To feel the buboes thicken By ulcer-blooms that quicken, Red sores that stink and sicken, Lures of a leprous bride : — Till, like a luscious Turk, you re- Bound, to the doctor spur : cure he Will, quickly blending Mercury With Kalic Iodide. (A verse, too indelicate for the taste of our lady readers, has here been omitted.) As when late larks give warning Of dying fucks or dawning, Girls murmur in the morning : “ Once more, dear boy, once more ! ” And Mr. Pego failing To answer to her wailing, Bursts out in wrath and railing : “ I shan’t, you bloody whore ! ” But soon her mouth up swallows His prick ; her poxy hollows Grow glorious as Apollo’s : [100]