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Says Mister Doojabs

Written by: Ellis Parker Butler | Biography
 Well, eight months ago one clear cold day,
I took a ramble up Broadway,
And with my hands behind my back
I strolled along on the streetcar track—
(I walked on the track, for walking there
Gives one, I think, a distinguished air.
) “Well, all of a sudden I felt a jar And I said, “I’ll bet that’s a trolley car,” And, sure enough, when I looked to see I saw it had run right over me! And my limbs and things were so scattered about That for a moment I felt put out.
Well, the motorman was a nice young chap! And he came right up and tipped his cap And said, “Beg pardon,” and was so kind That his gentle manner soothed my mind: Especially as he took such pains To gather up my spilt remains.
Well, he found my arms and found my head, And then, in a contrite voice, he said, “Say, mister, I guess I’ll have to beg Your pardon, I can’t find your left leg,” And he would have wept, but I said, “No! no! It doesn’t matter, just let it go.
” Well, I went on home and on the way I considered what my wife would say: I knew she would have some sharp reply If I let her know I was one leg shy, So I thought, on the whole, ’twould be just as well For my peace of mind if I didn’t tell.
Well, that was the first thing in my life That I kept a secret from my wife.
And for eight long months I was in distress To think that I didn’t dare confess, And I’d probably still feel just that way If it hadn’t come ’round to Christmas Day.
Well, in good old customs I still believe, So I hung up my stocking Christmas Eve; (A brand-new left one I’d never worn.
) And when I looked in it Christmas morn There was my leg, as large as life, With a ticket on it, “From your wife.
” Well, my wife had had it stored away In cotton, since last Easter Day, When she ran across it, quite by chance, In the left hip-pocket of my pants; And the only reproachful thing she said Was, “Look out or some day you’ll lose your head.



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