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A WARNING.
Makers of bonnets the women wear,
Molders of fashion, whoe'er ye be,
Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
This is the warning I fling afar:
"Mold 'em more on a smaller plan,
Chop off a couple of yards of 'spar,'
Or beware the wrath of an angry fan."
Molders of fashion, whoe'er ye be,
Drear is the curse of my daily prayer,
Deep is the hatred I have for thee.
This is the warning I fling afar:
"Mold 'em more on a smaller plan,
Chop off a couple of yards of 'spar,'
Or beware the wrath of an angry fan."
Yesteryear to the game I went,
Daily the pilgrimage I made.
O what a waste of coin I spent,
Wondering there how the game was played!
Was it a hit or an error raw?
Was it a stolen base or score?
I peered in vain, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet wide or more!
Daily the pilgrimage I made.
O what a waste of coin I spent,
Wondering there how the game was played!
Was it a hit or an error raw?
Was it a stolen base or score?
I peered in vain, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet wide or more!
Back to the park this spring I passed,
Knowing the old styles out of date.
"Now," I thought, "I shall get at last
A look once more at the old 'home plate.'"
Was it a hit or fielding flaw?
Why the deuce did the bleachers roar?
In vain I looked, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet high or more!
Knowing the old styles out of date.
"Now," I thought, "I shall get at last
A look once more at the old 'home plate.'"
Was it a hit or fielding flaw?
Why the deuce did the bleachers roar?
In vain I looked, but I only saw
A hat that was nine feet high or more!
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