The Scarlet Mo

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Mo, what right have you in wearing my things?
Borrowing boots, plaid jackets, and rings
With no intention to call stealing stole,
But to bump me one evening while in the moonlight you stroll
With another of mine—one I had not yet worn.
Still I keep my lips sewn, and I fold and I darn.
For friends do, do share. Share our lip paint and wit.
But your hand-me-downs, Mo, those stained rags never fit.
And do you know the most wretched part of all this?
What’s yours was once mine, now bloodstained by red lips.





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