  IF I would get to be a millionaire And didn’t have to work or anything, I’d go and buy a dimun’ stud and ring And open up a swell hotel somewhere And be head clerk myself, and have my hair All curled and fixed like Morton’s is, and fling On agony as though I’d be a king And had a throne behind the counter there. The guy that owns this joint ain’t got no style: He wears his whiskers down around his neck: I’ll bet that I’d have shiners by the peck If I was in his place and had his pile. When guests come in he don’t put on a smile And get to lookin’ chesty and say “Front” As though he owned the earth: he leaves that stunt Fer Morton, who can beat him out a mile.
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