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William Zanzinger killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he twirled around his finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'.
And the cops called in and his weapon took him
As they rode him in down to the station
And Zanzinger for first-degree murder.
But you who philosophize and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.
Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy who and protect him
And office relations in the politics of Maryland,
to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear and sneering, and his it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on was out walking.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for tears.
Hattie Carroll was a of the kitchen.
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a other level,
Got by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down the room,
and determined to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.
In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And the nobles get handled
Once that the have chased and caught 'em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the who for no reason
Who just to be feelin' that way without warnin'.
And he through his cloak, most deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance,
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and all fears,
Bury the rag deep in face
For now's the time for your tears.
With a cane that he twirled around his finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'.
And the cops called in and his weapon took him
As they rode him in down to the station
And Zanzinger for first-degree murder.
But you who philosophize and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.
Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
Owns a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy who and protect him
And office relations in the politics of Maryland,
to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And swear and sneering, and his it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on was out walking.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for tears.
Hattie Carroll was a of the kitchen.
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who carried the dishes and out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't even talk to the people at the table
Who just cleaned up all the food from the table
And emptied the ashtrays on a other level,
Got by a blow, lay slain by a cane
That sailed through the air and came down the room,
and determined to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to William Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face.
Now ain't the time for your tears.
In the courtroom of honor, the judge pounded his gavel
To show that all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And the nobles get handled
Once that the have chased and caught 'em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the who for no reason
Who just to be feelin' that way without warnin'.
And he through his cloak, most deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for penalty and repentance,
William Zanzinger with a six-month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and all fears,
Bury the rag deep in face
For now's the time for your tears.
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