THE HAYMARKET

by: Eugene O'Neill (1888-1953)

      HE music blares into a ragtime tune--
      The dancers whirl around the polished floor;
      Each powdered face a set expression wore
      Of dull satiety, and wan smiles swoon
      On rouged lips at sallies opportune
      Of maudlin youths whose sodden spirits soar
      On drunken wings; while through the opening door
      A chilly blast sweeps like the breath of doom.
       
      In a sleek dress suit an old man sits and leers
      With vulture mouth and blood-shot, beady eyes
      At the young girl beside him. Drunken tears
      Fall down her painted face, and choking sighs
      Shake her, as into his familiar ears
      She sobs her sad, sad history -- and lies!

"The Haymarket" is reprinted from the New London Telegraph, 21 November, 1912.

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