I've a friend who's in distress now, and Elizabeth's her name
Do you think you'll ever guess how she met with grief and shame?
Now, it isn't what you're thinking, for she's not that kind at all
And it isn't dope or drinking that caused the poor girl's fall.
My friend Elizabeth's out of temper, out of breath,
ever since she found skirts must trail upon the ground
She's got a better set of legs than even Mistinguett
Now she's got to hide what was once her joy and pride
This fad of over-dressing's depressing, distressing
And catching men grows harder, their ardour's not so strong
My friend Elizabeth's tired of life and prays for death
How can she go wrong, now that skirts are long?
It's a tune that has no virtue of the purely chiastic kind,
but enough to disconcert you, for it's taken in your mind
How the Berlin song is slumming, while Vienna crooks do wrong
They cannot desist from humming this idiotic song:
[Kehrreim des deutschen Originals (bis)]