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Bib Ballads

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Dollar Bill, that I've held so tightEver since payday, a week ago,Shall I purchase with you tonightA pair of seats at the vaudeville show?(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:"Look at his shoes! We must buy a pair.")Dollar Bill, from the wreckage saved,Tell me, how shall I squander you?Shall I be shined, shampooed and shaved,Singed and trimmed 'round the edges, too?(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:"He hasn't a romper that's fit to wear.")Dollar Bill, that I cherished so,Think of the cigarettes you'd buy,Turkish ones, with a kick, you know;Makin's eventually tire a guy.(Hark! A voice from the easy chair:"Look at those stockings! Just one big tear!")Dollar Bill, it is time to part.What do I care for a vaudeville show?I'll shave myself and look just as smart.Makin's aren't so bad, you know.Dollar Bill, we must say good-by;There on the floor is the Reason Why.


There's been a young stranger at our house,A baby whom nobody knew;Who hated his brother, his father, his mother,And made them aware of it, too.He stayed with us nearly a fortnightAnd carried a grouch all the while,Nor promise nor present could make him look pleasant;He hadn't the power to smile.He cried when he couldn't have something;He cried just as hard when he could;Kind words by the earful but made him more tearful,And scoldings did just as much good.He stormed when his meals weren't ready,And when they were ready, he screamed.He went to bed growling, got up again howlingAnd quarreled and snarled as he dreamed.He's gone, and the child we are fond ofIs back, just as nice as of old.But I hope to be in some port EuropeanThe next time he has a bad cold.


My son, I wish that it were halfAs easy to extract a laughFrom grown-ups as from thee.Then I'd go on the stage, my boy,While Richard Carle and Eddie FoyBurned up with jealousy.I wouldn't have to rack my brainOr lie awake all night in vainPursuit of brand new jokes;Nor fear my lines were heard with groansOf pain and sympathetic moansFrom sympathetic folks.I'd merely have to make a face,Just twist a feature out of place,And be the soul of wit;Or bark, and then pretend to bite,And, from the screams of wild delight,Be sure I'd made a hit.


He couldn't have a doughnut, and it made him very mad;He undertook to get revenge by screaming at his dad."Cut out that noise!" I ordered, and he gave another roar,And so I put him in "the room" and shut and locked the door.I left him in his prison cell two minutes, just about,And, penitent, he smiled at me when I did let him out.But when he got another look at the forbidden fruitHe gave a yell that they could hear in Jacksonville or Butte."Cut out that noise!" I barked again. "Cut out that foghorn stuff!Perhaps I didn't leave you in your prison long enough."You want your dad to keep you jailed all afternoon, I guess."He smiled at me and answered his equivalent for "yes."


I wonder how 'twould make you feel,My fellow food providers,To have as guests at ev'ry mealThree—count 'em, three—outsiders.Well, that's the case with me, but stillI don't complain or holler,For, strange to say, the groc'ry billHas not gone up a dollar.These guests of ours, to make it brief,Can't really chew or swallow;They're merely dolls, called Indian Chief,And Funny Man, and Rollo.


Perhaps in some respects it's trueThat you resemble dad;To be informed I look like youWould never make me mad.But one thing I am sure of, son,You have a different lineOf humor, your idea of funIs not a bit like mine.You drop my slippers in the sinkAnd leave them there to soak.That's very laughable, you thinkBut I can't see the jokeYou take my hat outdoors with youAnd fill it full of earth;You seem to think that's witty, too,But I'm not moved to mirth....