When her and me were here alone, at noon,
And she had bit a pickle square in two,
I set and watched and listened to her chew,
And thought how sweet she was, and pretty soon
She happened to look down at me and say:
“You seem so sad, poor boy; what's wrong with you?”
And then I got to shiverin’ all through
And wished that I was forty miles away.
I tried to think of some excuse to make,
But something seemed all whirly in my head,
And so the first blame thing I knew I said:
“It's nothin’ only just the stummick ache.”
Sometimes I almost wisht that I was dead
For settin’ there and makin’ such a break.