A hon he’s pining—
In lass, his beam,
His organ in Pam asway.
He’ll then send her away,
Then it’s Beverly’s hill he’ll lay.
Can’t remember the girl from the North
As yet another round he scor’th.

Tige’s steaming up a white mistress—
Putts iron, gets one in the hole.
On a spree. . .pops misses,
Banns Swede-dish disses;
He spears eight belles on a roll.

Tige’s steamy with a light mistress;
He bends her lips rift; par’s in sight.
Elin screams. . .not merry tonight:
Man she hitched has mistresses delight.

Tige’s streaming in a white mistress;
He likes ’em light as dinner rolls.
In twelve she’s pop “missiles.”
His hitchin’ fizzles;
He’ll see papers prepped by trolls.

Tige’s scheming wrought a riled missus—
There’s shyster slickness soon in sight.
Many lays—his balls were Tro[llo]p-Flite.
Now the hall with justices, his plight.