There was a young belle of Natche
Whose garments were always in patc
When comment arose
On the state of her clothes,
She drawled, When Ah itchez, Ah

He tells you when you’ve got on t
And helps you with your girdle wh

Master I may be,
But not of my fate.
Now come the kisses, too many too
Tell me, O Parcae,
For fain would I know,

Bound to your bookseller, leap to
Deluge your dealer with bakshish a
Lean on the counter and never say
Wodehouse and Wooster are with us
Flourish the fish-slice, your butt

How pleasant to sit on the beach,
On the beach, on the sand, in the
With ocean galore within reach,
And nothing at all to be done!
No letters to answer,

He who is ridden by a conscience
Worries about a lot of nonscience;
He without benefit of scruples
His fun and income soon quadruples

People who have what they want are
And I wish I could afford to gath
I dont’ mind their having a lot of
But I do think that they damn wel
But no, they insist on being steal

Song of the Open Road
I think that I shall never see
A billboard as lovely as a tree.
Perhaps unless the billboards fall
I’ll never see a tree at all.

The hunter crouches in his blind
‘Neath camouflage of every kind
And conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys
This grown-up man, with pluck and

I’ve never seen an abominable snow
I’m hoping not to see one,
I’m also hoping, if I do,
That it will be a wee one.