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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum, by Wallace Irwin
+
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+**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
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+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
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+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****
+
+
+Title: The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum
+
+Author: Wallace Irwin
+
+Release Date: December, 2003  [EBook #4756]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on March 12, 2002]
+
+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM ***
+
+
+
+
+This etext was produced by David A. Schwan, davidsch@earthlink.net.
+
+
+
+The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum
+
+
+
+by Wallace Irwin
+
+
+
+With an Introduction by
+Gelett Burgess
+
+
+
+Showing how Vanity is still on Deck,
+& humble Virtue gets it in the Neck!
+
+
+
+"A Leaden Heart I wear since she forsook me."
+
+
+
+
+The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum
+
+
+
+Introduction
+
+
+
+"Tell me, ye muses, what hath former ages
+Now left succeeding times to play upon,
+And what remains unthought on by those sages
+Where a new muse may try her pinion?"
+
+So Complained Phineas Fletcher in his Purple Island as long ago as 1633.
+Three centuries have brought to the development of lyric passion no
+higher form than that of the sonnet cycle. The sonnet has been likened
+to an exquisite crystal goblet that holds one sublimely inspired thought
+so perfectly that not another drop can be added without overflow. Cast
+in the early Italian Renaissance by Dante, Petrarch and Camoens, it was
+chased and ornamented during the Elizabethan period by Shakespere, and
+filled with its most stimulating draughts of song and love during the
+Victorian era by Rossetti, Browning and Meredith. And now, in this first
+year of the new century, the historic cup is refilled and tossed off in
+a radiant toast to Erato by Wallace Irwin.
+
+The attribute of modernity is not given to every new age. The cogs in
+the wheels of time slip back, at times. The classic revival may be
+permeated with enthusiasm, but it is a second edition of an old work -
+not a virile essay at expression of living thought. The later
+Renaissance was but half modern in its spirit; the classic period of the
+eighteenth century in England was half ancient in its mood. But the
+twentieth century breaks with a new promise of emancipation to English
+Literature, for a new influence has freshened the blood of conventional
+style that in the decadence of the End of the Century had grown dilute.
+This adjuvant strain is found in the enthusiasm of Slang. Slowly its
+rhetorical power has won foothold in the language. It has won many a
+verb and substantive, it has conquered idiom and diction, and now it is
+strong enough to assault the very syntax of our Anglo-Saxon tongue.[*]
+
+Slang, the illegitimate sister of Poetry, makes with her a common cause
+against the utilitarian economy of Prose. They both stand for lavish
+luxuriance in trope and involution, for floriation and adornment of
+thought. It is their boast to make two words bloom where one grew
+before. Both garb themselves in Metaphor, and the only complaint of the
+captious can be that whereas Poetry follows the accepted style, Slang
+dresses her thought to suit herself in fantastic and bizarre caprices,
+that her whims are unstable and too often in bad taste.
+
+But this odium given to Slang by superficial minds is undeserved. In
+other days, before the language was crystallized into the idiom and
+verbiage of the doctrinaire, prose, too, was untrammeled. Indeed, a
+cursory glance at the Elizabethan poets discloses a kinship with the
+rebellious fancies of our modern colloquial talk. Mr. Irwin's sonnets
+may be taken as an indication of this revolt, and how nearly they
+approach the incisive phrases of the seventeenth century may easily be
+shown in a few exemplars. For instance, in Sonnet XX, "You're the real
+tan bark!" we have a close parallel in Johnson's Volpone, or The Fox:
+
+"Fellows of outside and mere bark!"
+
+And this instance is an equally good illustration also of that curious
+process which, in the English language, has in time created for a single
+word ("cleave," for instance) two exactly opposite meanings. A line from
+John Webster's Appius and Virginia might be cited as showing how near
+his diction approached modern slang:
+
+"My most neat and cunning orator, whose tongue is quicksilver;"
+
+and, for an analogy similar, though elaborate, compare lines 5-8 in
+Sonnet XI. In Beaumont and Fletcher's Philaster,
+
+"A pernicious petticoat prince"
+
+is as close to "Mame's dress-suit belle" of No. VII as modern costume
+allows, and
+
+"No, you scarab!"
+
+from Ben Jonson's Alchemist gives a curious clue to the derivation of
+the popular term "scab" found in No. VI. Webster's forcible picture in
+The White Devil -
+
+"Fate is a spaniel; we cannot beat it from us!"
+
+finds a rival in Mr. Irwin's strong simile - "O Fate, thou art a
+lobster!" in No. IV. And, to conclude, since such similarities might be
+quoted without end, note this exclamation from Beaumont and Fletcher's
+Woman's Prize, written before the name of the insect had achieved the
+infamy now fastened upon it by the British Matron:
+
+"These are bug's words!"
+
+Not only does this evidently point out the origin of "Jim-jam bugs" in
+No. IX, and the better known modern synonym for brain, "bug-house," but
+it indicates the arbitrary tendency of all language to create gradations
+of caste in parts of speech. It is to this mysterious influence by which
+some words become "elegant" or "poetic," and others "coarse" or
+"unrefined," that we owe the contempt in which slang is held by the
+superficial Philistine.
+
+In Mr. Irwin's sonnet cycle, however, we have slang idealized, or as
+perhaps one might better say, sublimated. Evolution in the argot of the
+streets works by a process of substitution. A phrase of two terms goes
+through a system of permutation before it is discarded or adopted into
+authorized metaphor. "To take the cake," for instance, a figure from the
+cake-walk of the negroes, becomes to "capture" or "corral" the "bun" or
+"biscuit." Nor is this all, for in the higher forms of slang the idea is
+paraphrased in the most elaborate verbiage, an involution so intricate
+that, without a knowledge of the intervening steps, the meaning is often
+almost wholly lost. Specimens of this cryptology are found in many of
+Mr. Irwin's sonnets, notably in No. V:
+
+"My syncopated con-talk no avail."
+
+We trace these synonyms through "rag-time," etc., to an almost
+subliminal thought - an adjective resembling "verisimilitudinarious,"
+perhaps, qualifying the "con" or confidential talk that proved useless
+to bring Mame back to his devotion.
+
+In the masterly couplet closing the sestet of No. XVIII, Mr. Irwin's
+verbal enthusiasm reaches its highest mark in an ultra-Meredithian
+rendition of "I am an easy mark," an expression, by the way, which would
+itself have to be elaborately translated in any English edition.
+
+Enough of the glamors of Mr. Irwin's dulcet vagaries. He will stand,
+perhaps as the chief apostle of the hyperconcrete. With Mr. Ade as the
+head of the school, and insistent upon the didactic value of slang, Mr.
+Irwin presents in this cycle no mean claims to eminence in the truly
+lyric vein. Let us turn to a contemplation of his more modest hero.
+
+I have attempted in vain to identify him, the "Willie" of these sonnets.
+The police court records of San Francisco abound in characters from
+which Mr. Irwin's conception of this pyrotechnically garrulous Hoodlum
+might have been drawn, and even his death from cigarette-smoking,
+prognosticated in No. XXII, does not sufficiently identify him. Whoever
+he was, he was a type of the latter-day lover, instinct with that
+self-analysis and consciousness of the dramatic value of his emotion
+that has reached even the lower classes. The sequence of the sonnets
+clearly indicates the progress of his love affair with Mary, a heroine
+who has, in common with the heroines of previous sonnet cycles, Laura,
+Stella and Beatricia, only this, that she inspired her lover to an
+eloquence that might have been better spent orally upon the object of
+his affections. Even the author's scorn does not prevent the reader from
+indulging in a surreptitious sympathy with the flamboyant coquetry of
+his "peacherino," his "Paris Pansy." For she, too, was of the caste of
+the articulate; did she not
+
+"Cough up loops of kindergarten chin?"
+
+and could we hear Mame's side of the quarrel, no doubt our Hoodlum
+would be convicted by every reader. But Kid Murphy, the pusillanimous
+rival, was even less worthy of the superb Amazon who bore him to the
+altar. "See how that Murphy cake-walks in his pride!" is the
+cri-du-coeur the gentlest reader must inevitably render.
+
+But "the Peach crops come and go," as Mr. George Ade so eloquently
+observes. We must not take our hero's gloomy threats too seriously.
+There are other babies on the bunch, and no doubt he is, long ere this,
+consoled with a "neater, sweeter maiden" to whom his Muse will sing
+again a happier refrain. In this hope we close his dainty introspections
+and await his next burst of song!
+
+Gelett Burgess.
+
+San Francisco, Nov. 1, 1901
+
+
+
+[*] Note, for instance, the potential mood used indicatively in the
+current colloquial, "Wouldn't that jar you!"
+
+
+
+An Inside Con to Refined Guys
+
+
+
+Let me down easy, reader, say!
+Don't run the bluff that you are on,
+Or proudly scoff at every toff
+Who rattles off a rag-time con.
+
+Get next to how the French Villon,
+Before Jack Hangman yanked him high,
+Quilled slangy guff and Frenchy stuff
+And kicked up rough the same as I.
+
+And Byron, Herrick, Burns, forby,
+Got gay with Erato, much the same
+As I now do to show to you
+The way into the Hall of Fame.
+
+
+
+Prologue
+
+
+
+Wouldn't it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore
+To see the poet, when the goods play out,
+Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout
+His skate to two-step sonnets off galore?
+Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more
+Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about
+The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout
+And sends a batch of sonnets to the store.
+
+The sonnet is a very easy mark,
+A James P. Dandy as a carry-all
+For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark
+Just why their crop of thinks is running small.
+On the low down, dear Maine, my looty loo,
+That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you.
+
+
+
+I
+
+
+
+Say, will she treat me white, or throw me down,
+Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand,
+Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand,
+Knife me, or make me think I own the town?
+Will she be on the level, do me brown,
+Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand,
+Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band,
+Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown?
+
+I do not know, nor do I give a whoop,
+But this I know: if she is so inclined
+She can come play with me on our back stoop,
+Even in office hours, I do not mind -
+In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready
+To get an option on her as my steady.
+
+
+
+II
+
+
+
+On the dead level I am sore of heart,
+For nifty Mame has frosted me complete,
+Since ten o'clock, G. M., when on the street
+I saw my lightning finish from the start.
+O goo-goo eye, how glassy gazed thou art
+To freeze my spinach solid when we meet,
+And keep thy Willie on the anxious seat
+Like a bum Dago on an apple cart!
+
+Is it because my pants fit much too soon,
+Or that my hand-me-down is out of style,
+That thou dost turn me under when I spoon,
+Nor hand me hothouse beauties with a smile?
+If that's the case, next week I'll scorch the line
+Clad in a shell I'll buy of Cohenstein.
+
+
+
+III
+
+
+
+As follows is the make-up I shall buy,
+Next week, when from the boss I pull my pay: -
+A white and yellow zig-zag cutaway,
+A sunset-colored vest and purple tie,
+A shirt for vaudeville and something fly
+In gunboat shoes and half-hose on the gay.
+I'll get some green shoe-laces, by the way,
+And a straw lid to set 'em stepping high.
+
+Then shall I shine and be the great main squeeze,
+The warm gazook, the only on the bunch,
+The Oklahoma wonder, the whole cheese,
+The baby with the Honolulu hunch -
+That will bring Mame to time - I should say yes!
+Ain't my dough good as Murphy's? Well, I guess!
+
+
+
+IV
+
+
+
+O fate, thou art a lobster, but not dead!
+Silently dost thou grab, e'en as the cop
+Nabs the poor hobo, sneaking from a shop
+With some rich geezer's tile upon his head.
+By thy fake propositions are we led
+To get quite chesty, when it's buff! kerflop!!
+We take a tumble and the cog-wheels stop,
+Leaving the patient seeing stars in bed.
+
+So was I swatted, for I could not draw
+My last week's pay. I got the dinky dink.
+No more I see the husk in dreams I saw,
+And Mame is mine some more, I do not think.
+I know my rival, and it makes me sore -
+'Tis Murphy, night clerk in McCann's drug store.
+
+
+
+V
+
+
+
+Last night - ah, yesternight - I flagged my queen
+Steering for Grunsky's ice-cream joint full sail!
+I up and braced her, breezy as a gale,
+And she was the all-rightest ever seen.
+Just then Brick Murphy butted in between,
+Rushing my funny song-and-dance to jail,
+My syncopated con-talk no avail,
+For Murphy was the only nectarine.
+
+This is a sample of the hand I get
+When I am playing more than solitaire,
+Showing how I become the slowest yet
+When it's a case of razors in the air,
+And competition knocks me off creation
+Like a gin-fountain smashed by Carrie Nation.
+
+
+
+VI
+
+
+
+See how that Murphy cake-walks in his pride,
+That brick-topped Murphy, fourteen-dollar jay;
+You'd think he'd leased the sidewalk by the way
+He takes up half a yard on either side!
+I'm wise his diamond ring's a cut-glass snide,
+His overcoat is rented by the day,
+But still no kick is coming yet from Mae
+When Murphy cuts the cake so very wide.
+
+Rubber, thou scab! Don't throw on so much spaniel!
+Say, are there any more at home like you?
+You're not the only lion after Daniel,
+You're not the only oyster in the stew.
+Get next, you pawn-shop sport! Come oft the fence
+Before I make you look like thirty cents!
+
+
+
+VII
+
+
+
+Mayhap you think I cinched my little job
+When I made meat of Mamie's dress-suit belle.
+If that's your hunch you don't know how the swell
+Can put it on the plain, unfinished slob
+Who lacks the kiss-me war paint of the snob
+And can't make good inside a giddy shell;
+Wherefore the reason I am fain to tell
+The slump that caused me this melodious sob.
+
+For when I pushed Brick Murphy to the rope
+Mame manned the ambulance and dragged him in,
+Massaged his lamps with fragrant drug store dope
+And coughed up loops of kindergarten chin;
+She sprang a come back, piped for the patrol,
+Then threw a glance that tommyhawked my soul.
+
+
+
+VIII
+
+
+
+I sometimes think that I am not so good,
+That there are foxier, warmer babes than I,
+That Fate has given me the calm go-by
+And my long suit is sawing mother's wood.
+Then would I duck from under if I could,
+Catch the hog special on the jump, and fly
+To some Goat Island planned by destiny
+For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood.
+
+But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree,
+The trade in lager beer is still a-humming,
+A schooner can be purchased for a V
+Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming.
+My finish then less clearly do I see,
+For lo! I have another think a-coming.
+
+
+
+IX
+
+
+
+Last night I tumbled off the water cart -
+It was a peacherino of a drunk;
+I put the cocktail market on the punk
+And tore up all the sidewalks from the start.
+The package that I carried was a tart
+That beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk,
+And when they put me in my little bunk
+You couldn't tell my jag and me apart.
+
+Oh! would I were the ice man for a space,
+Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut,
+Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly race
+Around the eaves that from my forehead jut -
+Or will a carpenter please come instead
+And build a picket fence around my head?
+
+
+
+X
+
+
+
+As one who with his landlord stands deuce high
+And blocks his board bill off with I O U's,
+Touching the barkeep lightly for his booze,
+Sidestepping when a creditor goes by,
+Soaking his mother's watch-chain on the sly,
+Haply his ticker, too, haply his shoes,
+Till Mr. Johnson comes to turn him loose
+And lift the mortgage from that poor cheap guy;
+
+So am I now small change in Mamie's scorn,
+A microbe's egg, or two-bits in a fog,
+A first cornet that cannot toot a horn,
+A Waterbury watch that's slipped a cog;
+For when her make-up's twisted to a frown,
+What can I but go 'way back and sit down?
+
+
+
+XI
+
+
+
+O scaly Mame to give me such a deal,
+To hand me such a bunch when I was true!
+You played me double and you knew it, too,
+Nor cared a wad of gum how I would feel.
+Can you not see that Murphy's handy spiel
+Is cheap balloon juice of a Blarney brew,
+A phonograph where all he has to do
+Is give the crank a twist and let 'er reel?
+
+Nay, love has put your optics on the bum,
+To you are Murphy's gold bricks all O. K.;
+His talks go down however rank they come,
+For he has got you going, fairy fay.
+Ah, well! In that I'm in the box with you,
+For love has got poor Willie groggy, too.
+
+
+
+XII
+
+
+
+Life is a combination hard to buck,
+A proposition difficult to beat,
+E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet,
+In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck,
+And you are up against it nip and tuck,
+Shanghaied without a steady place to eat,
+Guyed by the very copper on your beat
+Who lays to jug you when you run amuck.
+
+O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain.
+On the T square I do not like your style;
+For you are playing favorites again
+And you have got me handicapped a mile.
+Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf:
+Go take a running jump and chase yourself!
+
+
+
+XIII
+
+
+
+If I were smooth as eels and slick as soap,
+A baked-wind expert, jolly with my clack,
+Gally enough to ask my money back
+Before the steerer feeds me knock-out dope,
+Still might I throw a duck-fit in my hope
+That I possessed a headpiece like a tack
+To get my Mamie in my private sack
+Ere she could flag some Handsome Hank and slope.
+
+What ho! she bumps! My wish avails me not,
+My work is coarse and Mame is onto me;
+So am I never Johnny-on-the-spot
+When any wooden Siwash ought to be.
+Thus I get busy working up a grouch
+Whenever heartless Mame harpoons me - ouch!
+
+
+
+XIV
+
+
+
+O mommer! wasn't Mame a looty toot
+Last night when at the Rainbow Social Club
+She did the bunny hug with every scrub
+ From Hogan's Alley to the Dutchman's Boot,
+While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute,
+Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub,
+Played nest-egg with the benches like a dub
+When hot society was easy fruit!
+
+Am I a turnip? On the strict Q. T.,
+When do my Trilbys get so ossified?
+Why am I minus when it's up to me
+To brace my Paris Pansy for a glide?
+Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scored
+A flock of zeros on my tally-board.
+
+
+
+XV
+
+
+
+Nixie! I'm not canned chicken till I'm cooked,
+And hope still rooms in this pneumatic chest,
+While something's doing underneath my vest
+That makes me think I'm squiffier than I looked.
+Mayhap Love knew my class when I was booked
+As one shade speedier than second best
+To knock the previous records galley west,
+While short-end suckers on my bait were hooked.
+
+Mayhap - I give it up - but this I know:
+When I saw Mamie on the line today
+She turned her happy searchlights on me so,
+And grinned so like a living picture - say,
+If a real lady threw you such a chunk,
+Could n't she pack her Raglan in your trunk?
+
+
+
+XVI
+
+
+
+Oh, for a fist to push a fancy quill!
+A Lover's Handy Letter Writer, too,
+To help me polish off this billy doo
+So it can jolly Mame and make a kill,
+Coax her to think that I'm no gilded pill,
+But rather the unadulterated goo.
+Below I give a sample of the brew
+I've manufactured in my thinking mill:
+
+"Gum Drop: - Your tanglefoot has got my game,
+I'm stuck so tight you cannot shake your catch;
+It's cruelty to insects - honest, Mame, -
+So won't you join me in a tie-up match?
+If you'll talk business I'm your lemon pie.
+Please answer and relieve
+
+An Anxious Guy."
+
+
+
+XVII
+
+
+
+Woman, you are indeed a false alarm;
+You offer trips to heaven at tourist's rates
+And publish fairy tales about the dates
+You're going to keep (not meaning any harm),
+Then get some poor old Rube fresh from the farm,
+As graceful as a kangaroo on skates,
+Trying to transfer at the Pearly Gates -
+For instance, note this jolt that smashed the charm: -
+
+"P.S. - You are all right, but you won't do.
+You may be up a hundred in the shade,
+But there are cripples livelier than you,
+And my man Murphy's strictly union-made.
+You are a bargain, but it seems a shame
+That you should drink so much.
+Yours truly,
+Mame."
+
+
+
+XVIII
+
+
+
+Last night I dreamed a passing dotty dream -
+I thought the cards were coming all my way,
+That I could shut and open things all day
+While Mame and I were getting thick as cream,
+And starred as an amalgamated team
+In a cigar-box flat across the bay -
+Just then the alarm clock blew to pieces. Say,
+Wouldn't that jam you? I should rather scream.
+
+Sleep, like a bunco artist, rubbed it in,
+Sold me his ten-cent oil stocks, though he knew
+It was a Kosher trick to take the tin
+When I was such an easy thing to do;
+For any centenarian can see
+To ring a bull's-eye when he shoots at me.
+
+
+
+XIX
+
+
+
+A pardon if too much I chew the rag,
+But say, it's getting rubbed in good and deep,
+And I have reached the limit where I weep
+As easy as a sentimental jag.
+My soul is quite a worn and frazzled rag,
+My life is damaged goods, my price is cheap,
+And I am such a snap I dare not peep
+Lest some should read the price-mark on my tag.
+
+The more my sourballed murmur, since I've seen
+A Sunday picnic car on Market Street,
+Full of assorted sports, each with his queen -
+And chewing pepsin on the forninst seat
+Were Mame and Murphy, diked to suit the part,
+And clinching fins in public, heart-to-heart.
+
+
+
+XX
+
+
+
+Forget it? Well, just watch me try to shake
+The memory of that four-bit Scheutzen Park,
+Where Sunday picnics boil from dawn till dark
+And you tie down the Flossie you can take,
+If you don't mind man-handling and can make
+A prize rough house to jolly up the lark,
+To show the ladies you're the whole tan-bark,
+And leave a blaze of fireworks in your wake.
+
+'Twas there before the Rainbow Club that Mame
+Bawled herself out as Murphy's finansay
+And all the chronic glad hand-claspers came
+To copper invites for the wedding day;
+And when the jocund day threw up the sponge
+Murphy was billed to take the fatal plunge.
+
+
+
+XXI
+
+
+
+At noon today Murphy and Mame were tied.
+A gospel huckster did the referee,
+And all the Drug Clerks Union loped to see
+The queen of Minnie Street become a bride,
+And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side,
+Standing where Yours Despondent ought to be.
+I went to hang a smile in front of me,
+But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried.
+
+The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one,"
+And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab;
+And when the game was tied and all was done
+The guests shied footwear at the bridal cab,
+And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother Jim
+Snickered, "She's left her happy home for him."
+
+
+
+XXII
+
+
+
+Still joy is rubbernecking on the street,
+Still hikes the Mags' parade at five o'clock,
+Still does the masher march around the block
+Pining in vain some hothouse plant to meet;
+Still does the rounder pull your leg to treat,
+Where flows the whisky sour or russet bock,
+And the store clothing dummies in a flock
+Keep good and busy following their feet.
+
+Rats! cut this out; for I'm a last year's champ;
+Into the old bone orchard am I blowing,
+So with the late lamented let me camp,
+My walkers to the graveyard daisies toeing,
+And shaking this too upish generation,
+Pass checks through cigarette asphyxiation.
+
+
+
+Epilogue
+
+
+
+To just one girl I've tuned my sad bazoo,
+Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred,
+And as I've tipped the straight talk every word,
+If you don't like it you know what to do.
+Perhaps you think I've handed out to you
+An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd
+As any sky-blue-pink canary bird,
+Billed for a record season at the Zoo.
+
+If that's your guess you'll have to guess again,
+For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory,
+And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain
+The sum and substance of my hard-luck story,
+Showing how Vanity is still on deck
+And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck.
+
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM ***
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