V

“There’ll be some fancy steps at Car-Barn Hall,”
Gilly the Gripman pipes me off today,
“This won’t be any gabberfest — for say! 
Nix but the candy goes to this here ball. 
You’ve got to flash your union card, that’s all,
To circulate the maze with Tessie May,
And all the Newport push out Harlem way
Will slip on wax till sunrise, — do you call?”

I told him that I pulled the gong for that! 
If Pansy would be there ’twas was Me for It. 
I’d burnish up my buttons, mop my hat,
Polish my pumps and blow in for a hit. 
“All to the Fritz,” says Gill, “if you get jolly
Around the curves — you’re apt to slip your trolley!”

VI

The lemon-wagon rumbled by today
And dropped me off a sour one — are you on? 
I went and gave the boss a cooney con
About the Car-Barn Kick — what did he say? 
“Back to your platform, Clarence light and gay,
Jingle the jocund fares, nor think upon
The larks of Harry Lehr or Bath House John,
For they are It and you are still on pay.”

So I have been sky-prancing all night long
A-dragging car-conductors and their queens
Clad in their laughing-robes to join the throng
That makes the Car-Barn function all the beans. 
And say!  I had a brainstorm just last trip
When I took Pansy’s fare from Gill the Grip.

VII

At Midnight when I got a gasp for lunch
I mushed it for the Car-Barns just to lamp
And see the Creamy Charlies do the vamp
And swing their Fancy Floras in the crunch. 
I piped my Pansy in among the bunch
And asked her would she mix it with the Champ,
Wouldn’t she like to join me in a stamp? 
She saw me first and stopped me with a punch.

I saw her hook a loop with Gill the Grip,
With Pinky Smith and Handsome Hank she heeled;
With all the dossy bunks she took a skip
Each time the German tune-professor spieled. 
But nix with me the lightsome toe she sprung —
As Caesar said to Cassius, “Ouch!  I’m stung!”

VIII

Forsooth that was a passing lusty clout
That chopped me off with Pansy — don’t you fret! 
There’s quite a blaze inside my garret yet,
And all the Dipper Corps can’t put it out. 
Gilly the Grip’s a pretty ricky tout —
Under the old rag-rug for him, you bet,
When I put on my Navajo and get
One license to unloose my soul and shout.

Perhaps he thinks I’m old Molasses Freight
Sidetracked at Pokey Pond and filled with prunes
Waiting for Congress to appropriate
The nuggets draped around me in festoons. 
Wait till I ticket Pansy, then I guess
Slow Freight will switch to Honeymoon Express!

IX