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Show Song of the Desk. With Angers blackened and red, And "owl-eyes" ragged and worn, A bookkeeper sat on a three-legged stool Wishing he'd never been born. Scratch, scratch, scratch. Correcting mistakes each day, Rubbing the places to make them take ink, Till his thumb nail is worn plumb away. Tote, tote, tote, Three hundred columns an hour. And it's oh! for a whiff at a cigarette Or a sip of a whisky sour. But he only shifts his quid 'Tis all that he can do And delivers a surreptitious squirt Mutt'ring a curse or two. Post, post, post, A dozen accounts a minute, Till a credit slips in on the debit side With a figure that shouldn't be in it. And oh! there is hell to pay When he draws up his balance sheet. He loses his job and, stifling a sob, Proceeds to imbibe and repeat. ' With Angers blackened and red, And "owl-eyes" ragged and worn, , A bookkeeper sat on a three-legged stool Wishing he'd never been born. J. P. G. in New York Sun. |