The Tents of Trouble #222222

For th' city's roar an' th' music's ring (rustle o' skirts an' an ole time fling An' a chance for an' easy breath. I've lighted my fires at evenin' 'neath stars you never have seen I've tarried whiles on vacant isles, an' th' waves that whip between. But whether I sweat on th' Congo, or freeze on th' bergs o Svork I 'dream at night, 0' th' arch 0' light that swings over Home — New York! For I've hung my warsh in a Temple, an' I've eaten a Sacred Cow Oh, I own nine lives an' fourteen Wives (but none 0' them's with me now Thank Gawd!) An' there's thousands 0' miles between me an' th' shores 0' th' only town; An' I'm dreamin' to-night by th' camp fire dim; (sick 0' th' Trail an' th' Weather's Whim;) An' I'd take a chance at a distance swim If I knew darn well I'd drown!