Just look, ’tis a quarter past six, love— And not even the fires are caught; Well, you know I must be at the office— But, as usual, the breakfast’ll be late.
Now hurry and wake up the children; And dress them as fast as you can; “Poor dearies,” I know they’ll be tardy, Dear me, “what a slow, poky man!”
Have the tenderloin broiled nice and juicy— Have the toast browned and buttered all right; And be sure you settle the coffee: Be sure that the silver is bright.
When ready, just run up and call me— At eight, to the office I go, Lest poverty, grim, should overtake us— “ ’Tis bread and butter,” you know.
The bottom from stocks may fall out, My bonds may get below par; Then surely, I seldom could spare you A nickel, to buy a cigar.