As I soc, I discovered a host of ho words in my head. . . .
Honie lived in a hovel in Soho. She was a fan dancer at a local hooch, 3 shows a night. All she wore during her act were large hoop earrings. Spent months in the hoosegow for various crimes of dishonesty and her demeanor. She wasn’t a bad girl, just a sad girl with few prospects.
Men of the wrong sort hovered around her, buying her drinks, and shoving her into their laps. She longed for, hoped for a guardian angel, who would save her.
Then she met Howard. A shoulder to cry on. Howard, who promised to help her out of her horrible lot in life.
It was that hell-house where she worked, run by the hell-hound Hoopla McHorrid that kept honour from her hands. He took advantage of her one time too many, and she stove his head in with a shovel. The same shovel she and Howard used to bury him. “Hooray, for Howard,” she thought, “Hooray for Honie. Hooray for us.”