The poor man's club is a genial place--if the poor man has the price;
there's a balmy smile on the barkeep's face, and bottles of goods on
ice; the poor man's club is a place designed to brighten our darkened
lives, and send us home, when we're halfway blind, in humor to beat our
wives. So hey for the wicker demi-john and the free-lunch brand of
grub! We'll wassail hold till the break of dawn, we friends of the
poor man's club! It's here we barter our bits of news in our sweat
stained hand-me-downs; it's here we swallow the children's shoes and
the housewives hats and gowns. It's here we mortgage the house and
lot, the horse and the muley cow; the poor man's club is a cheerful
spot, so open a bottle now! From brimming glasses we'll blow the foam
till the midnight hour arrives, when we'll gayly journey the long way
home and merrily beat our wives. We earn our dimes like the horse or
ox, we toil like the fabled steer, and then we journey a dozen blocks
to blow in the dimes for beer. While the women work at the washing tub
to add to our scanty hoard, we happily meet at the poor man's club,
where never a soul is bored. We recklessly squander our minted brawn,
and the clubhouse owner thrives; and we'll homeward go at the break of
dawn and joyously beat our wives.