THE CRIME

Lady, with the frescoed face,

Would you like to take my place,

Sitting here behind the "Graphic"

While the trolley aims at traffic?

Lady, pendant from that strap,

You would smile a bit, mayhap,

Did I move into the aisle?

Lady, you shall never smile

* * * *

Dusting is not your profession?

Making beds is not your trade?

Well, thank God, for the confession.

You can call a spade a spade.

Dusting is not your vocation?

Making beds is not your forte?

Well, don't exercise elation,

Killing goodies is good sport!

* * * *

He is on the Student Council

His decisions carry weight,

When you see him hurry by you

You can tell he's mastered fate.

Club ties fringe his pictured dresser,

Deans and Yard cops meekly bow,

And the debutantes nightly

Will admit he is a wow.

He is master of the puddle,

Making lesser frog lets quake,

Steps right up and call him brother,

He has such a vital shake.

* * * *

A bromide stood in the neighborhood

Of the student's Liberal Club.

"Ah Ha!", he cried. "I'll step-inside"

Of the students' Liberal Club.

The "Gadfly" swarmed and the pinklets stormed,

In the students Liberal Club.

And the bromide soon, received a boon

But briefly a resident, they named him the President

Of the student's Liberal Club.

* * * *

This last song in Q Minor is to be sung to the contrapuntal clashing of large glasses filled with Bromo Selzer, or. . .

* * * *

Now that touging is no more

May I even up the score,

Of the foreign missionary,

Whom the Cantonese won't bury

By some honest Christian dirt,

On that Chink who wrecked my shirt?

* * * *

While the hostess decks your tea,

With a lemon, think of me,

Smoking Russian cigarettes,

With a lady who forgets,

That the best of bromides pale,

Drinking tea, when I like ale.

Can pure conversation cheer,

When a gentleman wants beer?

* * * *

The orchestra played loud and shrill,

The front row seats began to fill,

And through my vest there ran a thrill.

The chorus!

The curtain rose, the lights went out,

A buxom sight, a buxom shout,

As all the burlesques dashed out.

The chorus.

Comedians may give a kick

To him who likes a wanton trick,

But buxom beauty I shall pick.

The chorus.