The Sport

My boy, it’s the end of the season-- Your campstake you’ve got in your clo’es; It isn’t much use fer to reason With you, I suppose. I know how the dollars are burnin’ A hole in your pocket right now; You’ll blow ’em--what use to be learnin’ A lumberjack how?

They’re waitin’ down there fer you, brother: The barkeep is loadin’ the gin; Each guy has some game er another Fer takin’ you in. The dames thet are plastered an’ painted Are puttin’ on powder fer fair-- The ladies whose kisses are tainted Are waitin’ you there.

I’ve been through the mill, an’ I know it-- I know jest the fool thet you are; Oh, you’ll be a sport, an’ you’ll throw it In gobs on the bar. It’s “Drinks fer the house!” you’ll be yellin’; The bums will be there to partake. They’ll laugh at the stories you’re tellin’, An’ gobble your stake.

While you have been pullin’ a briar, With beans an’ sow-belly to chew, The grafters have set by the fire A-waitin’ fer you-- The streak up their backs it is yellah, An’ life without work is the rule; They’ll say you’re a prince of a fellah An’ think you’re a fool.

So work like a dog in the winter, An’ act like an ass in the spring; Some guy with a jack-knife an’ splinter Will say you’re a king. It’s blood, an’ it’s bone, an’ it’s muscle, You’re throwin’ up there on the bar; Next week fer a job you kin rustle, The fool thet you are.

Oh, yes, they all think he’s the candy, A sport, a good fellow, who spends; I hope, when they say you’re a dandy, You’re proud of your friends. When you know jest how little there’s in it, Will you hand out your good money still? When you know they’re but friends fer a minute? You proba’ly will.