Hour after hour
At the same steady rate
Quick off the belt with 'em
Into the crate;
Onto the chute with it,
Down to the stack ;
Hour after hour
Oh, my poor, aching back !

Put down the second crate
On number one
Hour after hour
At the same, steady rate ;
And so they go up
Till they reach number eight
Stack after stack
After stack after stack ;
Hour after hour    ;
Oh, my poor, aching back.

Tea-Totaller (HIC!)

Saturday morning, the fateful hour,
  It has come round at last,
And under their blankets the players cower,
  Knowing the die has been cast.

Eleven fine lassies, sturdy and stout,
   (They say that they've got heavy bones),
Treck to the field, their opponents to rout,
   Encouraged by hopeful Miss Jones.

There's a bevy of females, all highly skilled,
   But the inner's the best of them all ;
As she flashes upfield she's iron willed;
   It's a pity she hasn't the ball.

The half-back's just clobbered the winger I fear ;
   I can see she's getting quite mad,
Miss Jones makes her objective quite clear
   When she says, "That is really too bad."

They've lost again but it's not such a sin;
   Some just are not born to play;
But to celebrate their very first win,
   The school will be closed for the day !