Wednesday, February 13, 2008
I Picked It Just For You
Out, damned inkspot! out, I say!--One: two: why,
then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my
lord, fie! a slumlord, and afeard? What need we
fear who knows it, when none can call our power to
account?--Yet who would have thought the young negro
to have had so much charisma in him.
David Shuster had a job: where is he now?--
What, will these hands ne'er be clean?--No more o'
that, Norman Hsu, no more o' that: you mar all with
Here's the smell of the blood still: all the
kickbacks of Arabia will not sweeten this little
hand. Oh, oh, oh!
Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so
pale.--I tell you yet again, Foster's buried; he
cannot come out on's grave.
To bed, to bed! Huma's knocking at the gate:
come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's
done cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!