My loveless lady of the ancient day Sought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her. I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say, She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver. * * * * * The Land of the Swinging Door When night steals up from the golden cup And the cares of the day are done; In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower, As we watch the dying sun; Oh, memory strong with its ancient song Goes back to the days of yore, When we mellow grew, with a motley crew, In the Land of the Swinging Door. Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail, Where our foot in comfort sat; Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass, And the dear old bar-room cat; Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice, And the highly polished floor, Belong to the show of the long ago In the Land of the Swinging Door. Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host, Has finished this land at last, And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch, Are memories of the past; Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda loke And drinks we now abhor, Are but empty chimes of virile times In the Land of the Swinging Door. Oh, a lemonade or a cocalade Sounds good in a “pro-hi” town, But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizz To our friend, the old rumhound; Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past, And the beer and wine’s no more; So let them fret, we won’t forget The Land of the Swinging Door. With nicotine, our ruling queen, And a match and an easy chair, We lie at ease and smoke as we please And dream of the bar-room fair; With purity waves and reforming aides, Tobacco will soon be o’er, But they can’t legislate our mental state And the Land of the Swinging Door. * * * * * Down in Oklahoma