The tower without any owl—
I see it wherever I prowl—
          There's no use in scolding,
          I'm always beholding
The tower without any owl.

The beautiful watch tower rears
Its head far above the dense bunch
          Of juniper trees. The sky clears.
I open my bundle of lunch.
          The top of the tower appears,
          My soul is invested with fears.

The tower—that lowering pile—
          No moping owl ever complains
To th' moon. All is dreary—no smile.
          The June bug distracting my brains
          Consumeth my body with pains,
          And all kinds of muscular sprains.

My clustering brain is all sticky.
Snap cricky! poor Dicky, tell Micky
          The chauffeur, please put up a lunch.
Good, come, now jump into the flivver
The flivver all life, feel it shiver!
          Hurrah for the bunch! Ah, that crunch-
I fear we ran over a polecat,
Hop skunk—Hi, Micky, you droll rat,
          Look out, don't run over the brink
          Of the cliff; hurry up, what a stink!

Oh, bring back my birdie to me,
Have mercy and change the decree.
          The tower without any owl—
          I see it wherever I prowl—
There's no use in scolding,
I'm always beholding,
          The tower without any owl.

On the banks of the beautiful Dee
I see far above that high tree,
          The tavern that's kept by
          The Prussian adept—by
The Jackass from Hackensack sea.

The German with ponderous jowl,
That Hun with a villainous scowl—
          Rot—that's what he's made of,
          He lives in the shade of
The tower without any owl.
          All nature seems wrapt in a trance,
          The Devil himself seems to dance.

Across to the window I go,
And what do I see? Ah, just so—
That tower—I smother a growl—
That parapet, minus the owl.

My dewlap is falling apart
          I've a kink in the lobe of my ear.
There's a festering dart in my heart,
          Which stretches me flat on my bier.

The tower looms up, the full moon
Gleams out of the sky, bright as noon.
My soul is all dross. What a loss!
Poor birdie, poor chippy. Of course,
I swallow the dippy bug sauce.

I leap from my limousine car,
I stop for a drink at the bar,
          Some whiskey and egg.
          I fear I shall peg
Quite out. I've a chain on each leg,
And a hoop torn off of my keg.

The loss of that owl—ah, I feel
I'll squeal. I've a kink in my wheel
          Which scrapes through my soul.
          No more sparkling bowl.
Give me air, raise the window, I reel.

Remove, take away the vile fodder.
The salad prepared from the dodder,
          The liver cut out of that mut,
          Extracted, squeezed into a cut
          In my gut—oh, how painful—tut, tut
          Get out of this Hell of a rut.

These terrible blue-bottle flies,
Are trying to bite out my eyes,
          And yet I see plainly,
          Distorted, ungainly,
The parapet—see it arise,
          The tower without any owl.
          I see it wherever I prowl.
There's no use in scolding,
I'm always beholding
The tower without any owl.

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