This jook joints,
Are always fool of happy crowds.
And tipsy wind is driving a herd
Of tipsy clouds.
I am so tired
I lose my fire and cannot find.
Barber, Barber, Barber, arrange my mind!
I feel your gase
It hollers at me! [bad word] here!
I like your face
But I am not for you, my dear.
I'm a feather brain
And seems I'll never love again.
Barber, Barber, Barber, cut off my pain!
This jook joints
Are are always fool of pretty girls.
But I can't stand all those,
Who calls up on their own.
You leave my bad,
You made me shaggy-haired and mad.
Barber, Barber, Barber, touch up my head!