Lofe it vos a funny ting.
Lofe vas vot makes a young man of America git six dollars a veek und spend seven of it in buying collars. Lofe is vot makes him feel dat his face vos never clean, dat his pants vas busted behind und dat his feet are the size of tea chests.
Lofe is vot makes him clean his teeth mit the shoe-brush twelve dimes a day, und wear a coffe-rose mit his button-hole every dime dat he passes his sweedheart’s door.
But de vorst of lofe is ven id turns oud der best. Dat ish to say, ven you ged married.
It vas nice to be a fader, some grazyman remarked, but I don’d see id. Maybe it vos peyewtiful to dake de smallest kid up mit your arms, und haf him tickle you under de chin as innocent as a fall sheep, und den, five minutes lader, draw picters all over your new glean shird mit de gravy-spoon. Some folks may like dat, but as for me, I pass id every dime.
But ven de children ingrease, two or dree at a dime, den de picnic begins. How nice id vos to ged up in de nighd mit de dwins, und valk aroundt de plock mit dem, in your nighd shird, to keeb dem from keebing avake. Dat is vot makes murderers oud of men.
But I dink dat I must conglude. I am a married man, und—vell, my vife keebs de nighd-key, I might lose id, und—vell, however, those of you who are married men, know how id vos yourselves, don’d id?
Thanking you all for the very kind vay in vich you haf been baying attention to someding else during my remarks, I conglude, hoping to come before you mit a new lecture before long.