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I don’t know myself what will become of this.
Although these bourgeois pigs
call them: Joy girls,
they don’t have joy all days.
Honest! Honest!
They don’t have joy all days.
Even with streetwalker’s feet,
pacing up and down the street,
is tiring for your legs.
Honest! Honest!
Is tiring for your legs.
Not only do they have corns on their toes,
like partridge’s eyes, but there is more.
It's idiot wearing out so many shoes
Honest! Honest!
It's idiot wearing out so many shoes
And the clients are often slobs
who never soak themselves.
Yet she is expected to lick him.
Honest! Honest!
She is expected to lick him.
She has to take care that the bloke
reaches seventh heaven in no time.
Don’t think she has stolen the gratuity.
Honest! Honest!
Don’t think she has stolen it.
She is despised by the public,
she is hassled by the cops,
with the syph lying in wait.
Honest! Honest!
The syph lying in wait
Making love a lifetime,
marrying twenty times a day,
but a wedding she will never get.
Honest! Honest!
A wedding she will never get.
You sons of blockheads and of dopes,
don’t laugh at that poor Venus,
that poor old maid.
Honest! Honest!
That poor old maid.
It is certainly not impossible, my dear
that this *** could have been your own mother.
This *** you are laughing at.
Honest! Honest!
This *** you are laughing at.