The chumps in Panama were glad to do the turkey trot, and other stunts
not quite so bad that folks call tommy rot. When Morton with his peaches
came, the cavaliers made bids, preserved them up in dry champagne, and
acted just like kids. A banker now is bankrupt, and the guy in the Elite
is selling out his socks and pants to put him on his feet. Raul E. has a
broken limb, he capered so each night. The peaches all looked up to him
because his heart was light.
We hoary heads came from the Zone, in force, to see it done, and spent
our coin, lest it be thought we didn’t like the fun. Our wives and
mothers thought that we were at a mission church, listening to a sermon
by the Rev. Baldhead Birch. And when we sought our peaceful homes with
sanctimonious airs, and knelt beside our babies’ cots and taught them
little prayers, we felt a sort of sneakish, like other hypocrites, and
worried lest our wives hear, and have a thousand fits. But now these
spasms are all gone; we’re quite ourselves again; our wives have never
yet caught on, and therefore have felt no pain. The Morton Peaches were
so wise, they took our coin away, and told us we were silly guys, like
those along Broadway.