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prairie Songs
"It's well enough to whoop things up an' get a gorgeous head But mighty wise to recolleck yer coin's just gone to grass.
I'm a-goin' to take a whirl at Santy Claus, instead,
Wish that toys was in my line, but maybe these'll pass."
Every cent he skirmished, from his hat-band to his pants, Went into the apron that the little one held out;
Rest of us, we follered suit, scrappin' fer the chance,
Then we took her to the door an' finished with a shout.
But, before we let her go — shameful sort o' trick! —
Made her kiss us all good-night; "Doc" took his right slow.
I just sucked my breath all in an' hustled through it quick; Still, she didn't seem to mind; guess she didn't know.
"Now," says I, "my homesick friend" (to him on Halsted Street), "You're a painful sort o* sight, crackin' up Broadway.
Kimball, Brule County, was an ace-high flush to beat
An' I'd backed her to the limit fer a winner in the play.
"But the beauty-spot on Kimball an' the boys that made her hum Was the fact that rye an' roulette didn't petrify their souls;
Simply tip 'em to the theory that yer luck was on the bum
An' they'd cut the game instanter an* deliver up their rolls.
"An' if I'd a wife an' children an' was billed fer Canaan's Strand I'd take a sight more pleasure in a-turnin' up my toes
If I left 'em to the mercies o' that old Dakota land
Than in your plug-hat city where the money-grubber grows." |
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