  In my bedroom, in my boudoir, There’s a box I ope no more; It is packed with all my treasures From the ten cent store. Saturday, a longing seizes— Grips me so I scarce can speak, And I ask for my allowance, Mostly thirty cents a week. Then I call on Margie Lynam, And we hasten from the door; And we go inspecting counters In the ten cent store. We get flushed most every visit When we lay our money down; There are no expert advisors— Mr. Woolworth’s out of town. Homeward, purchases we carry, And examine them with care; Then we pile them in the play-box, And we always leave them there. Riches never will be ours, We have said it o’er and o’er, Till they make things all “One Dollar” In the ten cent store. |
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