From the Rock Island Argus, November 13, 1913. By Henry Howland.
When the car in which you’re riding
Seems to barely creep along
You are not slow in deciding
That there must be something wrong;
When you miss the elevator
And must wait till it comes back
You are likely to blame Fate, or
Think the whole world’s out of whack.
When the office boy is stupid
Or the sweet stenographer
Seems to have her mind on Cupid
How you hate both him and her;
When she hums her sweet love ditty
You get overcharged with gall,
And you feel no touch of pity
When he whistles in the hall.
When you think all men are trying
To deprive you of your own;
When you wake up sadly sighing
And, at night, quit with a groan;
When you think that every other
Finds the wrong course to pursue
It is safe to bet, oh brother,
That the thing that’s wrong is you.