VIII.
THEY’VE give us a new operator here
To take the telegrams; she’s pretty near
A daisy, too. Her eyes are big and brown;
And when she sets there kind of lookin’ down,
As though she didn’t notice things, it’s queer
The way I get to wishin’ I could go
And save her from the clutches of some foe.
She makes me feel as though I’d like to be
A handsome man, about six foot, and strong,
To take her in my arms and let her see
That I was here protectin’ her from wrong.
The other day I talked to her a while:
It seemed as though whenever she would smile
I’d have a goneish feelin’ in my breast.
She’d be a peach, no matter how she dressed,
She’s got the other girls here beat a mile.
The red that’s on her cheeks ain’t painted there,
And she ain’t wearin’ no dead woman’s hair:
I don’t blame homely women if they try
To make themselves look fine, fer good looks pay—
But hers is not the kind that they can buy—
The beauty that she’s got grew there to stay.