Writing for Vaudeville eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 543 pages of information about Writing for Vaudeville.


Sweet Italian love,
Nice Italian love,
When you squeeze your gal and she no say, “Please
When you got dat twenty kids what call you “Papa!”
Dat’s Italian love,
Sweet Italian love;
When you kiss one-a time,
And it’s-a feel like-a mine,
Dat’s Italian love!


Words by                   Music by

Once I got stuck on a sweet little German,
  And oh what a German was she,
The best what was walking, well, what’s the use talking,
  Was just made to order for me. 
So lovely and witty; more yet, she was pretty,
  You don’t know until you have tried. 
She had such a figure, it couldn’t be bigger,
  And there was some one yet beside.


Oh how that German could love,
  With a feeling that came from the heart,
She called me her honey, her angel, her money,
  She pushed every word out so smart. 
She spoke like a speaker, and oh what a speech,
  Like no other speaker could speak;
Ach my, what a German when she kissed her Herman,
  It stayed on my cheek for a week.

This girl I could squeeze, and it never would hurt,
  For that lady knew how to squeeze;
Her loving was killing, more yet, she was willing,
  You never would have to say please. 
I just couldn’t stop her, for dinner and supper,
  Some dishes and hugs was the food;
When she wasn’t nice it was more better twice;
  When she’s bad she was better than good.

Sometimes we’d love for a week at a time,
  And it only would seem like a day;
How well I remember, one night in December,
  I felt like the middle of May. 
I’ll bet all I’m worth, that when she came on earth,
  All the angels went out on parade;
No other one turned up, I think that they burned up
  The pattern from which she was made.


Words and Music by CHARLES K. HARRIS

You sit at home and calmly read your paper,
  Which tells of thousands fighting day by day,
Of homeless babes and girls who’ve lost their sweet-hearts,
  But to your mind it all seems far away.


When it strikes home, gone is the laughter,
  When it strikes home your heart’s forlorn,
When it strikes home the tears fall faster,
  For those dear ones who’ve passed and gone. 
And when you hear of brave boys dying,
  You may not care, they’re not your own;
But just suppose you lost your loved ones,
  That is the time when it strikes home. 
Out on the street, a newsboy crying “Extra,”
  Another ship has gone down, they say;
’Tis then you kiss your wife and little daughter,
  Give heartfelt thanks that they are safe today.

Project Gutenberg
Writing for Vaudeville from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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