Her brother come this morning with a note
What said that she was home and sick in bed;
She's got an awful bad cold in her head —
They think it might run into the sore throat,
And oh, what if she'd not come back again,
And they would get some other girl instead
Of her to typewrite here, and she'd be dead?
I would n't care no more for nothin’ then.
I wish I was the doctor that they'd get,
And when I'd take her pulse I'd hold her hand
And say “Poor little girl!” to her, and set
Beside the bed awhile and kind of let
My arm go‘ round her, slow and careful, and
Say, “Now put out your tongue a little, pet.”