Oh, if you only knowed how much I like
To stand here, when the “old man” ai n't around,
And watch your soft, white fingers while you pound
Away at them there keys! Each time you strike
It almost seems to me as though you'd found
Some way, while writin’ letters, how to play
Sweet music on that thing, because the sound
Is something I could listen to all day.
You're twenty-five or six and I'm fourteen,
And you do n't hardly ever notice me —
But when you do, you call me Willie! Gee,
I wisht I'd bundles of the old long green
And could be twenty-eight or nine or so,
And something happened to your other beau.