XVIII.
IT’S up to me to kick myself some more:The daisy that is operatin’ hereHas been another fellow’s wife a year,And he’s a clerk in some department store.The happy thoughts I used to think beforeAre busted up forever. I appearTo always land somewhere back in the rear—The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore.I hope I’ll have a million bucks some dayAnd be the landlord here, and she will setThere, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet;And when I pass she’ll look at me and sayAll to herself she wished she knew some wayTo not be married, and I’d stop and getA blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fretWhen she would count the dimun’s I’d display.And mebby when I stood there near her, then,And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high,Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sighAnd nibble at her pencil or her pen,And we would both be feelin’ sad, and whenShe seen I loved her she’d begin to cryBecause she hadn’t waited, and then I—Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.
IT’S up to me to kick myself some more:The daisy that is operatin’ hereHas been another fellow’s wife a year,And he’s a clerk in some department store.The happy thoughts I used to think beforeAre busted up forever. I appearTo always land somewhere back in the rear—The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore.I hope I’ll have a million bucks some dayAnd be the landlord here, and she will setThere, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet;And when I pass she’ll look at me and sayAll to herself she wished she knew some wayTo not be married, and I’d stop and getA blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fretWhen she would count the dimun’s I’d display.And mebby when I stood there near her, then,And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high,Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sighAnd nibble at her pencil or her pen,And we would both be feelin’ sad, and whenShe seen I loved her she’d begin to cryBecause she hadn’t waited, and then I—Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.
IT’S up to me to kick myself some more:The daisy that is operatin’ hereHas been another fellow’s wife a year,And he’s a clerk in some department store.The happy thoughts I used to think beforeAre busted up forever. I appearTo always land somewhere back in the rear—The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore.
IT’S up to me to kick myself some more:
The daisy that is operatin’ here
Has been another fellow’s wife a year,
And he’s a clerk in some department store.
The happy thoughts I used to think before
Are busted up forever. I appear
To always land somewhere back in the rear—
The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore.
I hope I’ll have a million bucks some dayAnd be the landlord here, and she will setThere, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet;And when I pass she’ll look at me and sayAll to herself she wished she knew some wayTo not be married, and I’d stop and getA blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fretWhen she would count the dimun’s I’d display.
I hope I’ll have a million bucks some day
And be the landlord here, and she will set
There, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet;
And when I pass she’ll look at me and say
All to herself she wished she knew some way
To not be married, and I’d stop and get
A blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fret
When she would count the dimun’s I’d display.
And mebby when I stood there near her, then,And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high,Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sighAnd nibble at her pencil or her pen,And we would both be feelin’ sad, and whenShe seen I loved her she’d begin to cryBecause she hadn’t waited, and then I—Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.
And mebby when I stood there near her, then,
And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high,
Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sigh
And nibble at her pencil or her pen,
And we would both be feelin’ sad, and when
She seen I loved her she’d begin to cry
Because she hadn’t waited, and then I—
Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.