They called it that she made in France,
And ever' night she'd git
Great piles o' flowers, roses and sich,
O' yaller, red and white;
And ever' time she danced she fetched
Ten thousan' francs a night!
But Jim—poor Jim! our lazy boy—
He did'nt fare so well;
He's good in larnin', but, somehow,
His paper didn't sell.