I sit all day in my gorgeous den and I am the boss of a hundred men; my
enemies shake at my slightest scowl, I make the country sit up and
howl; to the farthest ends of this blooming land men feel the weight of
my iron hand.
But, oh, for the old, old shop,
Where I printed the Punktown Dirk,
And the toil and stress with the darned old press
That always refused to work!
I soothe my face with a rich cigar and ride around in a motor car; I go
to a swell cafe to dine and soak my works in the rarest wine. Oh,
nothing's too rich for your Uncle Jones, whose check is good for a heap
of bones!
But, oh, for the old, old shop,
Where I set up the auction bills,
And printed an ad of a liver pad,
And took out the pay in pills!
I've won the prize in the worldly game, my name's inscribed on the roll
of fame; my home is stately, in stately grounds, I have my yacht and I
ride to hounds; nothing I've longed for has been denied; is it any
wonder I point with pride?
But, oh, for the old, old shop,
In the dusty Punktown street!
I was full of hope as I wrote my dope,
Though I hadn't enough to eat!