Confessions in a Hash-House

I'm through!
Seven years I've worked at this hash counter,
Stooping five hundred times a day
To shout down the dumb-waiter to Pete
(That Polack never pays any attention,
I can't get a thing I ask for)
And spilling a line of cheerful chatter
To my customers.
I should think men would get tired of kidding.

Those guys that are so particular,
Send back their scrambled eggs for another three minutes,
Must have their tomatoes on a side dish
And not on the meat,
Gee, I'll bet when they're home
They take what comes to them
And shut up about it.
And I'll bet that the fresh guys
Who pull the jazz talk day after day
Have mighty little to say at home.
Men are a bunch of fakers:
If I ever get one where I want him
I'll make him behave.
I'll bean him with a sad-iron.

I'm tired of kidding the bunch.
I'm tired of listening to their yap about what they like
And what they don't like.
Just for a change I'd like to see some one
Come in here and order his lunch and eat it
Without trying to be funny about it.
If all this stooping wasn't so good for the figure
(But, oh, my back, by six P.M .!)
I'da quit long ago.

Well, girls, I'm through.
Next week I'm going to marry a fellow,
And I don't mind telling you, I'm in luck.
He works in a restrunt on Girard Avenue,
So he won't never be home to meals.
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