And You All Get Paid upon a Friday.
Copyright, 1892, by Frank Tousey.
Words by Harry Adams. Music by Jas. M. Harrison.
I really can't tell what has come to the boys,
They make themselves awfully free;
All they think of is making a terrible noise,
And all going out on the spree.
They used to be different some time ago,
You could then meet a genuine lad,
But now it's a puzzle to find a nice bean;
Oh! you've gone from the good to the bad.
And you all get paid upon a Friday,
On Saturday you leave at one,
On Sunday you've gold and silver,
On Monday and Tuesday none, ta ra rum;
Wednesday you start upon the borrow,
And Thursday you promise to pay;
Then you go to bed at night and wake up with delight.
For it's Friday again, hooray!
When you get in your teens you imagine you're men,
And, of course, get behind a cigar,
Never dreaming of seeing till long after ten,
The nice little girl to the car;
Then cards you must play till the break of the day,
To bad luck all your faith has been pinned;
You indulge in a song, as you swagger along,
About twenty-three sheets in the wind.-Chorus.
You say, times are bad and that you're in hard luck,
That you're very near tired of life,
And 'twould ruin you quite if you were to unite
With a damsel and make her your wife;
Yet you spend heaps of cash just to cut a big dash,
But for all that you're only a jay;
You figure, of course, in some case of divorce,
And some thousands you then have to pay.-Chorus.