Gilly the Grip's a pretty ricky tout -
Under the old rag-rug for him, you bet,
When I put on my Navajo and get
One license to unloose my soul and shout.
Perhaps he thinks I'm old Molasses Freight
Sidetracked at Pokey Pond and filled with prunes
Waiting for Congress to appropriate
The nuggets draped around me in festoons.
Wait till I ticket Pansy, then I guess
Slow Freight will switch to Honeymoon Express!
IX
Today I gave a serenade to Gill;
I says, "To put it pleasant you're a screech,
Your smile would shoo the seagulls off the beach,
Your face would give Vesuvius a chill.
You're just what Mr. Shakespeare calls 'a pill
Trying to keep company with a peach.'
Now, if you want to answer with a speech,
Open your trap at once, or else lie still."
But when I handed Gill the Grip this cluster
He simply clamped his language-mill down tight,
Strangled his guff and acted rather fluster
Although I'm sure I spoke to him polite.
I guess that Mr. Gilly ain't the kind
That understands when people talk refined.
X
Three days with sad skidoo have came and went,
Yet Pansy cometh nix to ride with me.
I rubber vainly at the throng to see
Her golden locks - gee! such a discontent!
Perhaps she's beat it with some soapy gent -
Perhaps she's promised Gill the Grip to be
His No. 1 till Death tolls "23!"
While I am Outsky in the supplement.
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