Am I in bad? upon the tick of nine
Today the Pansy got aboard my ship
And sprung the Trans-Suburban for a trip.
Say, she’s the shapely ticket pretty fine!
Next to her pattern Anna Held looks shine
And Lilly Russell doesn’t know the grip.
But oh! she’s got a deep ingrowing tip
That she must shy at honks like yours and mine.
I says to her, “Fare, please!” out loud
But she pipes, “Fade, Bill, fade! you pinched my fare.”
That get-back tripped your Oswald to the mat,
And yet I yelled, “Cough up here, Golden Hair!”
Eh, what? I got the zing from Pansy’s orb
Which says, “Dry out now, Shorty, — please absorb!”
A True McGlook once handed this to me:
When little Bright Eyes cuts the cake for you
Count twenty ere you eat the honey-goo
Which leads to love and matrimony — see?
A small-change bunk what’s bats on spending free
Can’t four-flush when he’s paying rent for two.
The pin to flash on Cupid is ‘Skidoo!’
The call for Sweet Sixteen is 23.”
But say! Life looks goshawful on the stretch
Without a Ray of Sunshine in my flat,
With no one there to call me “Handsome wretch,”
And dust the fuzz and mildew off my hat.
If she was waiting at the church tonight
You’d find me there with wedding-bells all right!
Pansy got on at Sixteenth Street last night,
And some one flipped a handspring in my heart.
She snickered once, “Oh look, here’s Mr. Smart!”
Was I there Henry Miller? guess you’re right!
I did the homerun monologue as bright
As any scrub that ever learned the art.
I plum forgot the signals, “Stop” and “Start!”
And almost wrecked the car once — guess I might!
I took one Mike six blocks beyond the place
He flagged for his. He got as red as ham
And yodelled through his apopleptic face,
“I think you’re dips!” I says, “I know I am — "
When Pansy starts to send a wireless wave
She simply just can’t make her eyes behave!
On every car there’s always one fat coot
What goes to sleep and dreams he’s paid his fare.
And when you squeak he gets the Roosevelt glare,
And hoots, “I won’t be dickied with — I’ll shoot!”
Then all the passengers get in and root.
Loud cheers of, “Put him off!” and “Make him square!”
Till Mr. Holdfast with an injured air
Pungles his nick and ends the bum dispute.
It’s ever thus on this here rolling ball —
You’ve got to pop your coin to ride so far.
The yap that kicks and rings a deadhead call
Must either spend or else get off the car.
On Life’s Street Railway wealth may cut the cheese,
But Death rings up and says, “Step lively, please!”