I know an ice handler who wears a flannel shirt with
     pearl buttons the size of a dollar,
And he lugs a hundred-pound hunk into a saloon ice-
     box, helps himself to cold ham and rye bread,
Tells the bartender it's hotter than yesterday and will be
     hotter yet to-morrow, by Jesus,
And is on his way with his head in the air and a hard
     pair of fists.
He spends a dollar or so every Saturday night on a two
     hundred pound woman who washes dishes in the
     Hotel Morrison.
He remembers when the union was organized he broke
     the noses of two scabs and loosened the nuts so the
     wheels came off six different wagons one morning,
     and he came around and watched the ice melt in the
     street.
All he was sorry for was one of the scabs bit him on the
     knuckles of the right hand so they bled when he
     came around to the saloon to tell the boys about it.