Air just pink with cuss-words, runnin' round in stripes,
Doors an' winders full o' folks, none a-comin' back.
"Doc" was just a-prancin' round, gettin' things in range,
So's to shoot the whole joint up without no undue pause,
When we heerd a little voice, thin an' mighty strange,
Pipin' up from somewheres, "Mister, is you Santa Claus?"
Well, I swan, if that there shack had gathered up an' r'ared
An' galloped off across the street, we'd not been more knocked out
Than when we seen that little girl, blue-eyed an' curly-haired,
A-standin' in the bar-room, half-way 'twixt a smile an' pout.