﻿Gesundheit, Mr. Wob 
 
There are two famous men. 
They’re always on the job; 
One is Mr. Scissorbill, 
The other is Mr. Wob. 
Let praises then be sung. 
(By hearts with sorrow wrung) 
For the things they do 
And the way they coo 
And the way they use their “lung” 
 
CHORUS 
O Mr. Scissorbill, O Mr. Scissorbill. 
How much coin have ye taken to Liquorville? 
— I’m convinced you drink too much; 
And your brain must need a crutch — 
Yes, I hope to Christ ‘twill make you sicker still. 
Oh Mr. Wob, O Mr. Wob. 
My head feels just as if ‘twas being shod 
I am sick and sore inside 
And I fear I’ve strained my hide . . . 
More than likely, Mr. Scissorbill — 
Gesundtheitly, Mr. Wob. 
 
Oh hearken to my wail — 
They are two famous men; 
Please, O Mr. Editor, 
Donate this space to them; 
Although it may be wrong, 
Please soak them with a song: 
For the way they slave 
And the way they rave— 
‘Tis an inspiration strong. 
 
CHORUS 
O Mr. Scissorbill, O Mr. Scissorbill, 
Your dear wife now will certainly miss her swill; 
She will surely miss her hash — 
Now that you have had you splash, 
And I ‘spose you’ve got the crust to kick her still?  
O Mr. Wob, O Mr. Wob, 
My wife does everything but carry “hod,” 
And although it’s wrong to pun 
She’s my faithful, Washington . . . 
And you love ‘er, Mr. Scissorbill? 
—All there’s of her, Mr. Wob. 
— T-bone Slim