The latest order given out has made the chumps feel blue; they don’t
know what it’s all about, but let me tell you, they’ve lost their graft,
for when they go to the Isle across the bay they have to take their
wallets, because they have to pay.
Some blame it all on Uncle Sam, and some on Uncle George, and others say
he’s not to blame, because his heart is large; but a guy told me, in
confidence, who seldom ever speaks, that he isn’t blaming any one but
poor old baldhead Meeks.
Before that guy came back, said he, we could spend a little more on
drinks and turkey trottings at Jones’s by the short. There’s one good
thing about it, though, if you get a little tight, you’re not an orphan
chap no more; you can stay away all night. And if you stay out after
nine, your time they cannot dock, since we began to pay our way we stay
till twelve o’clock.
But, say! the wife won’t let me go to the Isle across the bay, because
she says we can’t afford to pay two plunks a day. Should hubby rest, the
wife will stay to mend the socks and pants; it cost too much to go with
hub to learn the latest dance. To give good coin for rent and light and
rest she can’t endure; the future isn’t looking bright, our graft is
slipping sure.