Other Exercises
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William killed poor Hattie Carroll
With a cane that he around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'.
And the cops called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody to the station
And booked Zanzinger for first-degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag from your face.
Now ain't the for your tears.
Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy who provide and him
And high office relations in the of Maryland,
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on bail 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 your tears.
Hattie was a maid of the kitchen.
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't talk to the people at the table
Who just up all the food from the table
And emptied the on a whole other level,
Got killed by a blow, lay by a cane
That sailed the air and came down through the room,
Doomed and to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and all fears,
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 all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the have after and caught 'em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way warnin'.
And he spoke his cloak, deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for and repentance,
Zanzinger with a six-month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the for your tears.
With a cane that he around his diamond ring finger
At a Baltimore hotel society gath'rin'.
And the cops called in and his weapon took from him
As they rode him in custody to the station
And booked Zanzinger for first-degree murder.
But you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Take the rag from your face.
Now ain't the for your tears.
Zanzinger, who at twenty-four years
a tobacco farm of six hundred acres
With rich wealthy who provide and him
And high office relations in the of Maryland,
Reacted to his deed with a shrug of his shoulders
And and sneering, and his tongue it was snarling,
In a matter of minutes on bail 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 your tears.
Hattie was a maid of the kitchen.
She was fifty-one years old and gave birth to ten children
Who the dishes and took out the garbage
And never sat once at the head of the table
And didn't talk to the people at the table
Who just up all the food from the table
And emptied the on a whole other level,
Got killed by a blow, lay by a cane
That sailed the air and came down through the room,
Doomed and to destroy all the gentle.
And she never done nothing to Zanzinger.
But you who philosophize disgrace and all fears,
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 all's equal and that the courts are on the level
And that the strings in the books ain't pulled and persuaded
And that even the nobles get properly handled
Once that the have after and caught 'em
And that the ladder of law has no top and no bottom,
Stared at the person who killed for no reason
Who just happened to be feelin' that way warnin'.
And he spoke his cloak, deep and distinguished,
And handed out strongly, for and repentance,
Zanzinger with a six-month sentence.
Oh, but you who philosophize disgrace and criticize all fears,
Bury the rag deep in your face
For now's the for your tears.
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