WHEN I was tellin' ma, two days ago,
About our beautiful typewriter girl
She dropped the dough and give a sudden whirl
And said: 'She's twic't as old as you, you know--
She must be twenty-five or six or so.
Don't think about her any more, my dear,
And you and me'll be always happy here--
Besides, she's nothing but an old scarecrow.'

It made me sad to hear her talk that way;
My darling's just a little girl almost--
I can't see why ma give her such a roast,
And I could hardly eat my lunch next day,
For every time I took a bite of bread
I almost hated ma for what she said.