  IT’S up to me to kick myself some more: The daisy that is operatin’ here Has been another fellow’s wife a year, And he’s a clerk in some department store. The happy thoughts I used to think before Are busted up forever. I appear To always land somewhere back in the rear— The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore. I hope I’ll have a million bucks some day And be the landlord here, and she will set There, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet; And when I pass she’ll look at me and say All to herself she wished she knew some way To not be married, and I’d stop and get A blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fret When she would count the dimun’s I’d display. And mebby when I stood there near her, then, And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high, Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sigh And nibble at her pencil or her pen, And we would both be feelin’ sad, and when She seen I loved her she’d begin to cry Because she hadn’t waited, and then I— Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.
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