XII.
IF I would get to be a millionaire
And didn’t have to work or anything,
I’d go and buy a dimun’ stud and ring
And open up a swell hotel somewhere
And be head clerk myself, and have my hair
All curled and fixed like Morton’s is, and fling
On agony as though I’d be a king
And had a throne behind the counter there.
The guy that owns this joint ain’t got no style:
He wears his whiskers down around his neck:
I’ll bet that I’d have shiners by the peck
If I was in his place and had his pile.
When guests come in he don’t put on a smile
And get to lookin’ chesty and say “Front”
As though he owned the earth: he leaves that stunt
Fer Morton, who can beat him out a mile.
