II

Los Cigarillos

    This is the land of the dark-eyed gente,
    Of the dolce far niente,
    Where we dream away
    Both the night and day,
    At night-time in sleep our dreams we invoke,
    Our dreams come by day through the redolent smoke,
    As it lazily curls,
    And slowly unfurls
    From our lips,
    And the tips
    Of our fragrant cigarillos. 
    For life in the tropics is only a joke,
    So we pass it in dreams, and we pass it in smoke,
    Smoke—­smoke—­smoke.

    Tropical constitutions
    Call for occasional revolutions;
    But after that’s through,
    Why there’s nothing to do
    But smoke—­smoke;

    For life in the tropics is only a joke,
    So we pass it in dreams, and we pass it in smoke,
    Smoke—­smoke—­smoke.

III

Teestay

    Of tropic sensations, the worst
    Is, sin duda, the tropical thirst.

    When it starts in your throat and constantly grows,
    Till you feel that it reaches down to your toes,
    When your mouth tastes like fur
    And your tongue turns to dust,
    There’s but one thing to do,
    And do it you must,
    Drink teestay.

Teestay, a drink with a history, A delicious, delectable mystery, “Cinco centavos el vaso, senor,” If you take one, you will surely want more.

Teestay, teestay, The national drink on a feast day; How it coolingly tickles, As downward it trickles, Teestay, teestay.

    And you wish, as you take it down at a quaff,
    That your neck was constructed a la giraffe.
    Teestay, teestay.

IV

The Lottery Girl

    “Lottery, lottery,
    Take a chance at the lottery? 
    Take a ticket,
    Or, better, take two;
    Who knows what the future
    May hold for you? 
    Lottery, lottery,
    Take a chance at the lottery?”

    Oh, limpid-eyed girl,
    I would take every chance,
    If only the prize
    Were a love-flashing glance
    From your fathomless eyes.

    “Lottery, lottery,
    Try your luck at the lottery? 
    Consider the size
    Of the capital prize,
    And take tickets
    For the lottery. 
    Tickets, senor?  Tickets, senor? 
    Take a chance at the lottery?”

    Oh, crimson-lipped girl,
    With the magical smile,
    I would count that the gamble
    Were well worth the while,
    Not a chance would I miss,
    If only the prize
    Were a honey-bee kiss
    Gathered in sips
    From those full-ripened lips,
    And a love-flashing glance
    From your eyes.