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The Spike: or, Victoria College Review Capping Carnival 1921

3. Solo

3. Solo.

Theo. Tresizes:
I am a dancing master gay,
Butterfly flitting from day to day.
Just look in my eye.


Just look in his eye.

All the nice people their homage pay,
All of the hall-room beneath my sway.

He's Theo Tresize.
He's Theo Tresize.

For I was christened Theo you see,
It means Theodore between you and me);
If you Would foxtrot. I'll shew you what's what;
You'll learn to twist.
Like Theo Tresize,

(Chorus repeat.)
I laid the foundations of Goring Street,
Saved your young maidens from boredom sweet.

Did Theo Tresize.
Did Theo Tresize.

Auckland enlisted my timely aid,
And to the Davis a trip I made!

Oh, many the cries.
For Theo Tresize.

All tepischorean tumbles I know,
All that's in Heaves and all below:
From Polka to prancing there's nothing in dancing
Unknown alone
To Theo Tresize.

(Chorus repeat.)
As a producer I won great fame,
All that's artistic is in my name; Byes!
(Boys in an Irish idiom.)

There aren't any flies
On Theo Tresize.

All of them love me whose blood is blue,
Gaze on my autographed picture, you! Guys!

He's Theo Tresize.
He's Theo Tresize

For I improved the old foxtrot so,
Found a new onestep that's all the go
(I say that it's Spanish, hut it might be Danish),
For as I can tell you
Your Theo Tresize.

page 15

or he, you see, is Theo Tresize,
and once his name blared to the skies
at now-a-day the cabarets
much too full for Theo Tresize.


(Air—"If: you Look in Her Eyes.")


roamed this way from over the seas
from far Archipelagoes:
played the candle in Kingdoms of Greece,
and Mary in "Mary Rose."
[unclear: ve] acted Hamlet many a time,
[unclear: t] after dinner snooze;
[unclear: ut] now I chase the wild-cat rhyme,
[unclear: nd] dip deep in praise of booze.

[unclear: ad] is the lot of a Morton,
[unclear: oses] and rue and ruth;
[unclear: h] if my name'd been Norton,
[unclear: ow] I'd have told the truth!
would have penned no word of Journalese,
[unclear: r] of chimpanzeeze,
[unclear: or] of Diction'ries;
[unclear: ad] is the lot of a Morton,
[unclear: Oh], for my vanished youth!

When I was young I felt very sure
The world would resound my name.
That my message would long endure,
Written in words of flame;
But Whistler now. alas, feels no more,
And Lindsay I know I am not;
Sad the heart and dreary and sore.
The maudlin Morton's lot.

Bad is the life of a jotter.
Worse it grows from day today;
Now if I had been a potter,
Thumping at his wet clay,
I would have written not a sonnet,
Bought not a bonnet,
Take my word on it.
Sad is the life of a jotter,
With printer's devils to pay.