Advising Chloi

Why shun me, my Chloi? Nor pistol nor bowie

Is mine with intention to kill.

And yet like a llama you run to your mamma;

You tremble as though you were ill.

No lion to rend you, no tiger to end you,

I'm tame as a bird in a cage.

That counsel maternal can run for The Journal —

You get me, I guess. ... You're of age.

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