O pig-tail Celestial,
O barbarous bestial,
Abominable Chinee! 
Simian fellow man,
Primitive yellow man,
Joshian devotee! 
Shoe-and-cigar machine,
Oleomargarine
You are, and butter are we—­
Fat of the land are we,
Salt of the earth;
In God’s image planned to be—­
Noble in birth! 
You, on the contrary,
Modeled upon very
Different lines indeed,
Show in conspicuous,
Base and ridiculous
Ways your inferior breed. 
Wretched apology,
Shame of ethnology,
Monster unspeakably low! 
Fit to be buckshotted—­
Be you ’steboycotted. 
Vanish—­vamoose—­mosy—­Go!

TOK BAK: 

You listen me!  You beatee the big dlum
An’ tell me go to Flowly Kingdom Come. 
You all too muchee fool.  You chinnee heap. 
Such talkee like my washee—­belly cheap!
                          (Enter Satan.)
You dlive me outee clunty towns all way;
Why you no tackle me Safflisco, hay?

SATAN: 

Methought I heard a murmuring of tongues
Sound through the ceiling of the hollow earth,
As if the anti-coolie ques——­ha! friends,
Well met.  You see I keep my ancient word: 
Where two or three are gathered in my name,
There am I in their midst.

MOUNTWAVE: 

O monstrous thief! 
To quote the words of Shakespeare as your own. 
I know his work.

HARDHAND: 

Who’s Shakespeare?—­what’s his trade? 
I’ve heard about the work o’ that galoot
Till I’m jest sick!

TOK BAK: 

Go Sunny school—­you’ll know
Mo’ Bible.  Bime by pleach—­hell-talkee.  Tell
’Bout Abel—­mebby so he live too cheap. 
He mebby all time dig on lanch—­no dlink,
No splee—­no go plocession fo’ make vote—­
No sendee money out of clunty fo’
To helpee Ilishmen.  Cain killum.  Josh
He catchee at it, an’ he belly mad—­
Say:  “Allee Melicans boycottee Cain.” 
Not muchee—­you no pleachee that: 
You all same lie.

MOUNTWAVE: 

                   This cuss must be expelled.
                                   (Draws pistol.)

MOUNTWAVE, HARDHAND, SATAN (singing): 

For Chinese expulsion, hurrah! 
To mobbing and murder, all hail! 
Away with your justice and law—­
We’ll make every pagan turn tail.

CHORUS OF FOREIGN VOTERS: 

    Bedad! oof dot tief o’ze vorld—­
    Zat Ivan Tchanay vos got hurled
    In Hella, da debil he say: 
   “Wor be yer return pairmit, hey?”
    Und gry as ’e shaka da boot: 
   “Zis haythen haf nevaire been oot!”

HARDHAND: 

Too many cooks are working at this broth—­
I think, by thunder, t’will be mostly froth! 
I’m cussed ef I can sarvy, up to date,
What good this dern fandango does the State.

MOUNTWAVE: 

The State’s advantage, sir, you may not see,
But think how good it is for me.