Almost every other evening jest as reg'lar as the clock
When we're settin' down ter supper, wife and I, there comes a knock
An' a high-pitched voice, remarking', "Don't get up; it's me, yer know";
An' our mercury drops from "summer" down ter "twenty-five below,"
An' our cup of bliss turns sudden inter wormwood mixed with gall,
Fer we know it's Sister Simmons come ter make her "reg'lar call."

In she comes an' takes the rocker. Thinks she'll slip her bunnit off,
But she'll keep her shawl on, coz she's 'fraid of addin' ter her cough.
No, she won't set down ter supper. Tea? well, yes, a half er cup.
Her dyspepsy's been so lately, seems as if she should give up;
An', 'tween rheumatiz an' as'ma, she's jest worn ter skin an' bone.
It's a good thing that she told us,—by her looks we'd never known.

Next, she starts in on the neighbors; tells us all their private cares,
While we have the fun er knowin' how she talks of our affairs;
Says, with sobs, that Christmas comin' makes her feel so bad, for, oh!
Her Isaiah, the dear departed, allers did enjoy it so.
Her Isaiah, poor henpecked critter, 's been dead seven years er more,
An' looked happier in his coffin than he ever did afore.

So she sits, her tongue a-waggin' in the same old mournful tones,
Spoilin' all our quiet evenin's with her troubles an' her groans,
Till, by Jude, I'm almost longin' fer those mansions of the blest,
"Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest!"
But if Sister Simmons' station is before the Throne er Grace,
I'll just ask 'em to excuse me, an' I'll try the other place.