“t of cold” (Patruno Sherling, Spammer Lifting Text From a Writer Who Himself Piggybacked Upon Edgar Allan Poe – Regurgitated Here Yet Again): A Commentary on Modern Poetry

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Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
—Carl Sandburg
 ________________________

[Ed. note: This usurped text from an email spam folder has been found to be original text from The Black Cat: A Play in Three Acts (based on a Edgar Allan Poe short story), by John Todhunter, and released into the public domain for any use, including, presumably, for that of notorious email spammers selling dodgy products or setting up malware links for incredibly stupid recipients who click on anything.] 

[As found, except for manipulated line breaks, removed character names, some punctuation tweaks, and upper and lower case changes.]

[I] mean
to live it out.
But your husband?
You married again,
did you not?

Yes.
Fancy a woman
making that mistake
twice!
But, you see,

I was in an equivocal position.
I had left
my first husband;
I don’t want to conceal
my misdeeds,

Oh, don’t expect
paving stones
from an old woman like me!
I judge every case on its own merits.
I know what men are,

though I’ve been content
to gain my experience
at my friends’ expense.
I tell ye,
I know more

about the ins and outs
of marriages
than most married women,
just as the curler
on the bank

sees most of the game.
You mayn’t have been
anything worse than a fool,
and ye mayn’t have been
even that.

Thank you.
I was a fool,
of course
You see, my first
marriage was a mistake

altogether.
It was my mother’s doing.
I knew nothing
of marriage, or love –
either, for that matter.

That came afterwards,
and – all the scandal.
And may I ask,
young woman,
have you run away

from your second husband?
You say
that marriage was
a mistake too? No.
He is dead now,

But you don’t —
(Looks at her dress.)
No, I don’t
afficher
eternal bereavement.

We were separated for two years.
Poor Blanche!
Then it was not a success?
No, it was
not a success.

Well, we mustn’t
ask why?
Oh, I’m in the humour
for confession.
I think

you can understand.
We got on well
enough while I was –
free.
But he did the chivalrous thing —

asked me to marry
him; and I was glad
enough to scramble back
to the platform
of respectability.

Well, I understand
that, anyhow.
That seemed to kill
the romance,
such as it was.

I need not go
into the sordid details,
but we quarreled
finally about money —
my money.

My husband
took to gambling
in stocks. But I have managed
to keep my little pittance,
fortunately. Well, that is enough

of my affairs.
Have you any children,
Constance?
One little girl,
just nine.

Have you any?
No – none,
A woman
who has had
such

unpleasant
experiences
ought to
hate and despise
men.

But o




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