  THE hours are passing slow, To see my watch I dread, ’Tis ten o’clock, I know, And yet I lie in bed, With dull and aching head. That pint of fizz with Joe, That big cigar with Fred, Have wrought dyspeptic woe. No more with friends I’ll tope. It’s twelve! Ho, Phyllis, ho! Hot water and some soap! I see the feet of crow Around my lids of lead; My pallid face also With yellow hues o’erspread. What good is growling so? I’ll wash myself instead. * * * * What means this healthy glow? What means this new-born hope? Why rosy do I grow? I’m using Samson’s soap! My thoughts resume their flow, My garb of sloth is fled; I’m waltzing to and fro, And feel no longer dead. My gloomy hour has sped— A dashing, mashing beau; My yellow hue has fled— I’m game to ride or row. I envy not the Pope, I’m full of life and go, Thanks be to Samson’s Soap! Envoy.Prince! whose pet name is “Ted,” When you are feeling low, And wake at dawn and mope, And tumble out of bed, And wash from top to toe, Use only Samson’s soap! |
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