A CHILLY COON.
Copyright. 1898, by Smith Piano Co.
Words by Fred Colin. Music by John A. Thomas
There's a coon lives in our place,
Funniest spec'men of the colored race,
Coons nearly all are mighty hot,
But this one is of a different lot;
He won't look at any dusky belle.
They think that he's a loon,
When he'll pass by the gang will cry:
There goes the chilly coon.
Spoken.-My ain't it cold, Br-r-r-r.
He don't care what they say, no one knows what's his lay,
He goes his easy way, morning, night and noon;
Wenches will pass him by, smile at him and then they sigh,
He don't care, and then they cry, there goes the chilly coon.
Down in the crap-game shooting dice.
Ev'rybody warm, he as cold as ice,
Niggers all shouting seven, 'leven, come,
But our chilly friend's keeping mum,
Now's his turn to roll them bones,
Ev'ry nigger groans.
He makes eight passes, look out for a fight,
And wins all the coin in sight.-Cho.