I've never ceased to believe that fellow was the nerviest bunco man I ever met.
I traveled down to Coney Island the other day with a friend recently married.
They went to housekeeping, and I suspect the little woman has been bombarding him with all manner of fearful dishes which she insists upon trying.
That's so like my Clara—- oh, so like! Did I ever tell you about Clara? Well, I'll sing about her instead. Listen:
My Clara bought a gaudy book,
With colored pictures illustrated:
It teaches her, she says, to cook—-
In other things she's educated.
But, oh! she still her bread will burn,
Her steak is hard and she will fry it;
To cook I know she'll never learn,
Why will she try it?
I have a friend who wrote a book—-
He means, he says, to write another,
The greatest fortitude it took
To hear it read. I had to smother
Some awful yawns. I'd have to call
The man a silly fool who'd buy it;
But then poor Jones can't write at all,
Why will he try it?
I know a girl who loves to sing
And does so at the least persuasion
Or none at all—an awful thing,
I know by one most sad occasion.
Her voice might have some sort of use
If to saw filing she'd apply it,
But singing! She has no excuse.
Why will she try it?
And so it goes. Most people pant
To do the things they're most unfit for—
To preach—to paint—we know they can't—
And what they can don't care a bit for.
Perhaps we, too, our callings miss,
But tell us so and we'll deny it.
We still will fool with that or this,
Why will we try it?