“I want my pants,” he says, “I’ll die unless You let me out to get some exercise.” She shook her head and looked him in the eyes And told me it was second childishness And that he wasn’t strong enough to dress— Then out he jumped and started fer the door, With nothin’ but his nightshirt on, and swore He’d run away—he meant it, too, I guess.
But he was old and slow and she was spry, And when he started to get out she caught A pitcherful of water up and got Around in front of me and let it fly. She turned and give a sorry little sigh When he’d went back to bed, and said a lot Of things about how sad she’d be and not Know how to bear the shock if he would die.
When I get old and wrinkled up and gray I want my wife to be as old as me: Then she’ll not be ashamed if people see Us out together, and they’ll never say They wonder what she cost me, anyway. I’d hate to think that every time when we Went anywhere the men would wink and she Had sad clo’s to jump into any day.
IT’S up to me to kick myself some more: The daisy that is operatin’ here Has been another fellow’s wife a year, And he’s a clerk in some department store. The happy thoughts I used to think before Are busted up forever. I appear To always land somewhere back in the rear— The sound of telegraphin’ makes me sore.
I hope I’ll have a million bucks some day And be the landlord here, and she will set There, in the corner, telegraphin’ yet; And when I pass she’ll look at me and say All to herself she wished she knew some way To not be married, and I’d stop and get A blank sometimes, just so’s to make her fret When she would count the dimun’s I’d display.
And mebby when I stood there near her, then, And had broad shoulders, and was six feet high, Her lips would tremble and she’d give a sigh And nibble at her pencil or her pen, And we would both be feelin’ sad, and when She seen I loved her she’d begin to cry Because she hadn’t waited, and then I— Oh, rats! There’s Morton yellin’ “Front” agen.
IF yesterday would come to-morrow There wouldn’t hardly be no sorrow.
For then we’d have another try At chances that we let go by.
Instead of givin’ luck the blame We’d grab the good things when they came.
We’d take the best and leave the worst If all the days came hind-end first.