Red-Faced As Old Carousal, And With Eyes A Hard, Hot Blue; Her Hair A Frowsy Flame, Bold, Dowdy-Bosomed, From Her Widow-Frame She Leans, Her Mouth All Insult And All Lies. Or Slattern-Slippered And In Sluttish Gown, With Ribald Mirth And Words Too Vile To Name, A New Doll Tearsheet, Glorying In Her Shame, Armed With Her Falstaff Now She Takes The Town. The Flaring Lights Of Alley-Way Saloons, The Reek Of Hideous Gutters And Black Oaths Of Drunkenness From Vice-Infested Dens, Are To Her Senses What The Silvery Moon'S Chaste Splendor Is, And What The Blossoming Growths Of Earth And Bird-Song Are To Innocence.