My Son, I Wish That It Were Half As Easy To Extract A Laugh From Grown-Ups As From Thee. Then I'd Go On The Stage, My Boy, While Richard Carle And Eddie Foy Burned Up With Jealousy. I Wouldn't Have To Rack My Brain Or Lie Awake All Night In Vain Pursuit Of Brand New Jokes; Nor Fear My Lines Were Heard With Groans Of Pain And Sympathetic Moans From Sympathetic Folks. I'd Merely Have To Make A Face, Just Twist A Feature Out Of Place, And Be The Soul Of Wit; Or Bark, And Then Pretend To Bite, And, From The Screams Of Wild Delight, Be Sure I'd Made A Hit.