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Show Song of the Desk.- With fingers 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 dc 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 fingers 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. |
