The other day I talked to her a while:
It seemed as though whenever she would smile
I’d have a goneish feelin’ in my breast.
She’d be a peach, no matter how she dressed,
She’s got the other girls here beat a mile.
The red that’s on her cheeks ain’t painted there,
And she ain’t wearin’ no dead woman’s hair:
I don’t blame homely women if they try
To make themselves look fine, fer good looks pay—