Conductor, when you receive a fare,Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

　　A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

　　CHORUSPunch, brothers! punch with care!

　　Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

　　I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times. They took instant and entire possession of me. All through breakfastthey went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not. I had carefully laid out my day's work theday before--thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing. I went to my den to begin my deed of blood. I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, "Punch in thepresence of the passenjare." I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless. My head kept humming, "A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare," and so on and so on, without peace or respite. The day's work was ruined--I could see that plainly enough. I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle. When I could stand it no longer I altered my step. But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on harassing me just as before. I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon;suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, andjingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along,the same as ever; got up at midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothingvisible upon the whirling page except "Punch! punch in the presence of thepassenjare." By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and wasdistressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings--"Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the pass enjare!"