From their sad smoking homes the sweet Poncas must go.
But that is too thin in
Unclean German linen!
There were kisses unnumbered; their lips, as if glued,
Stuck together like candy in summer:
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The dusk cheek o' the maid like a red rose was hued,
Like the bloom on the nose of a bummer!
There were tears sown with kisses, and eyes reaped with tears,
There were sundering embraces through shadow-kissed years,
And they wist of the sin in
The foul German linen!
They came to dear Boston, the home of the Tramp,
Where ten dollars are roses a dozen;
The drizzling March rain on their ulsters hung damp,
And a terrible pickle each was in!
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