Now and anon some Lizzie flags the train
And I, poor dots, cry, "Rapture, it is her!"
Yet guess again - my hope is all in vain
And Pansy girl refuses to occur.
If this keeps up I think I'll finish swell
Among the jabbers in a padded cell.
XI
My Trolley hikes to Harlem p.d.q.,
And picks up pikers all along the beat.
At six o'clock the aisles are full of feet,
The straps with fingers, and the entire zoo
Boils on the platform with a mad huroo
Reckless as Bronx mosquitoes after meat.
The widow stands, the fat man gets the seat
And Satan smiles like Foxy M. Depew.
And as we hikes along I thinks, thinks I,
"The human race is like the ocean foam,
Roaring and discontented, peevish, fly - "
Say, why in blazes don't they stay to home?
This travel-sickness is a danger which
Keeps hoboes poor and corporations rich.
XII
Today I piped my future Ma-in-law.
She got aboard my Pullman and she scared
Three babies into fits the way she glared.
Rattle my baggage if I ever saw
A cracker-box to equal Mother's jaw,
A hardwood-finish face all nailed and squared.
She ossified the gripman when she stared -
And me? Well, I was overcame with awe.
But, being Pansy's Ma, 't was up to me
To hand her something pit-a-pat and swell,
And so I says, "Hello, Queen Cherokee!
What ho! for Pansy? hope she's feeling well."
And Ma responds, a trifle tart but game,
"She minds her bizness - hope you feel the same.
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