Come, my little eunuchs, my tender virgins,it's high time you were home and in bed.The wind's cold and strong in the streets now,and it's almost ten o'clock.
Soon whores will be obvious at corners,and I wouldn't want you accosted or given the eye;soon drunks will be turned out of beverage roomsand you could be rolled or raped up a dark lane.
So quickly find your houses, turn the latch-key, set the night-lock,remember to dress with the blinds down. Then safe in bed you may dreamof Pickthall walking hand in hand with her fairies,of Lampman turning his back on Ottawa.
