At Midnight when I got a gasp for lunch
I mushed it for the Car-Barns just to lamp
And see the Creamy Charlies do the vamp
And swing their Fancy Floras in the crunch.
I piped my Pansy in among the bunch
And asked her would she mix it with the Champ,
Wouldn't she like to join me in a stamp?
She saw me first and stopped me with a punch.
I saw her hook a loop with Gill the Grip,
With Pinky Smith and Handsome Hank she heeled;
With all the dossy bunks she took a skip
Each time the German tune-professor spieled.
But nix with me the lightsome toe she sprung—
As Caesar said to Cassius, "Ouch! I'm stung!"
VIII
Forsooth that was a passing lusty clout
That chopped me off with Pansy—don't you fret!
There's quite a blaze inside my garret yet,
And all the Dipper Corps can't put it out.
Gilly the Grip's a pretty ricky tout—
Under the old rag-rug for him, you bet,
When I put on my Navajo and get
One license to unloose my soul and shout.
Perhaps he thinks I'm old Molasses Freight
Sidetracked at Pokey Pond and filled with prunes
Waiting for Congress to appropriate
The nuggets draped around me in festoons.
Wait till I ticket Pansy, then I guess
Slow Freight will switch to Honeymoon Express!
IX
Today I gave a serenade to Gill;
I says, "To put it pleasant you're a screech,
Your smile would shoo the seagulls off the beach,
Your face would give Vesuvius a chill.
You're just what Mr. Shakespeare calls 'a pill
Trying to keep company with a peach.'
Now, if you want to answer with a speech,
Open your trap at once, or else lie still."
But when I handed Gill the Grip this cluster
He simply clamped his language-mill down tight,
Strangled his guff and acted rather fluster
Although I'm sure I spoke to him polite.
I guess that Mr. Gilly ain't the kind
That understands when people talk refined.
X
Three days with sad skidoo have came and went,
Yet Pansy cometh nix to ride with me.
I rubber vainly at the throng to see
Her golden locks—gee! such a discontent!
Perhaps she's beat it with some soapy gent—
Perhaps she's promised Gill the Grip to be
His No. 1 till Death tolls "23!"
While I am Outsky in the supplement.
Now and anon some Lizzie flags the train
And I, poor dots, cry, "Rapture, it is her!"
Yet guess again—my hope is all in vain
And Pansy girl refuses to occur.
If this keeps up I think I'll finish swell
Among the jabbers in a padded cell.