O,
you, Joe Cone
Believe my eyes:
You
are too prone
To poetize.
You’re
off your beat
You’ve missed the plate,
About
the sweet
Girl graduate!
She
reads her books
Wears furbelows,
And
never cooks,
And never sews.
She
rules the moon
And rules the sea;
And
pretty soon
Will you and me.
Cheer
up Jocos’
And dance and sing;
Just
let her boss
The whole durn thing.
Beat
a retreat,
Get off the plate
And
let the sweet
Girl graduate!
June 1, 1910
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