Gettin' Jiggy with a Bawdy Railroad Ribald Reel of a Troubled Tool Room Attendant, in da Tool Crib, caged behind steel.
as sung to the traditional tune of "The Scotsman".
“The JIG CRIB JIG”
Ten dozen times a day, I blush,
my modesty is shocked.
Quite frequently I grateful gush
the tool crib gate is locked.
Now I don't mind such decent terms
as wrenches, drills and shears,
but mostly tools they ask for burns
bright red behind my ears.
My job is full of troubles
and I will now vent a few
of the unpleasant tasks these
engineers command I do.
I'm naturally straight, virtuous,
upstanding, young miss, true.
Else-wise, I'd bid this job farewell,
and blow good-bye kiss to.
-- CHORUS --
Reamers to grind out cracked butts.
Jig weld, they diddly~eye say.
They ask me if I've got their nuts,
ten dozen times a day.
They're on their back, they're in the air,
they're wrestling with their beast.
They're up and down, they're in and out,
and fueled by brewers yeast.
I'm twiddlin' out of sight, when folks
knock boots to ding my bell.
They say a part's not right, what took
so long, was I in hell?
Their brass ring's dinged, sheet metal's pinged,
their needles plumb wore out.
I try to help them do their thing,
no need to pitch and shout.
They cuss and curse and swear the air
for parts that can't be missed.
I understand frustration, fair
I'm not why they are pissed.
Reamers to grind out cracked butts.
Jig weld, they diddly~eye say.
They ask me if I've got their nuts,
ten dozen times a day.
They call me out and shake my grill
and whistle all the while.
Chaps holler for a ratchet drill,
then for a bastard file.
They asked for cocks that seat up true;
for counter-bores and tits.
But when they need a tempered screw,
I pinch dividers fits.
I munched a brunch of honeybunch
when rumblin' through the trees
a guy slammed down a counter-punch
that spilled cream on my knees.
I quenched the fella come to me
as I wiped up from lunch,
to pass through the cage window please,
his enormous prick punch.
Reamers to grind out cracked butts.
Jig weld, they diddly~eye say.
They ask me if I've got their nuts,
ten dozen times a day.
A man pressing a bearing stock
will lubricate my balls,
before recov'ring from the shock,
another fella calls
to ask me for a bitch dog, nose
flares up my temper wild,
to terminate a feeder hose
and nipple-clamp a child.
Reamers to grind out cracked butts.
Jig weld, they diddly~eye say.
They ask me if I've got their nuts,
ten dozen times a day.
One lad needed a female gauge,
which almost made me wail,
'cause I can't mind the difference
'tween a flange and a steel rail.
One man complained, “My tool's too short.”
another “It's too long!”
Another says ‒ his tool's too weak,–
or, lastly ‒ it's too strong!–
One asked me if I'd put him wise
to locate some tailstock.
Another needs some narrow waste
to pack a plumber's cock.
The foreman came inside the pen
for tools to gut a slot
– insisting “Slide your drawers open,
present me what you've got!”
Reamers to grind out cracked butts.
Jig weld, they diddly~eye say.
They ask me if I've got their nuts,
ten dozen times a day.
A kindly old machinist who
possessed one half a jag,
knelt at my window begging for
a handful of my rag.
Periodically I strive,
but I can ne'er forget,
the cashier needs to know if I've
not had my monthly yet.
Now this all goes to show you that,
on fixin'/buildin' days,
a tool crib gal must take it in,
ten dozen different ways.
But when the project's in yet,
bright-gleaming and brand-new,
My window will be vacant yet
for lads who need a screw.
Reamers to grind out cracked butts.
Jig weld, they diddly~eye say.
They ask me if I've got their nuts,
ten dozen times a day.
Ring ding diddle~diddle~eye de~oh!
Ring ding diddly~eye ay!
I ask them if they got their nut,
ten dozen times a day!
-- ANDANTE (slowly) --
So sign it out and take my tool,
I'm trying to be fast.
Our goal here is create product,
through time, that's going to last.
Clean it with gas, return for pass,
without your sass 'n frass,
'Cause I'm the lass to take it in,
not take it in the,
===========================
Troubles [of a Tool Room girl.]
Surely there must be other copies of this bawdy railroad ribald somewhere else in the world.
I returned to Travel Town to locate and study this document after several years because the art struck me so.
And because I tried, unsuccessfully, to express it to others.
What I call the original is the only reference I can find, is truly just a copy.
The dingy paper's faded ink in the museum case there is from a manual typewriter (small characters such as periods and comas have punched holes through the paper into the worn rubber platen.)
What leads me to believe that it can't be the only surviving copy is - it's incompleteness.
Similar to the FAXed joke, this must have made the rounds of several manufacturers via secretarial pools.
And it would have played "telephone" throughout the repeated copies and mailings, collecting errors along the way.
And it's accrued brilliance is result of improvement by many manipulative minds.
Of my observations of old artworks at the Getty Center, I see ancient artworks that survive are religious or pornography.
And the most ancient - religious pornography.
Everything nearly rhymes in nearly metered couplets, except for two verses:
They ask me for a ratchet drill
and for a bastard file.
as well as:
They asked me for a bitch dog,
which makes my temper wild,
These are the only two stanzas on the page in that case, that are missing their second half.
Perhaps they were once joined, they sound related, but separated by copy error, and the second verse re-inserted when the error was discovered, but further down the paper.
Or perhaps it was set to a popular tune of the time and verse came out right this way.
They could have even been left incomplete intentionally, due to their overt sexual suggestiveness.
So, based on what was broken, and re-arranged in my attempt at correction, I have created my own verses, set it to music, cleaned up the meter but not the language, and given it a snappier, pop, title "Crib Jig".
I took the liberty of retyping the following prose because I thought it was just a piece of history that needed to be shared.
My husband Rob and I came across these words typed from a very old typewriter, on very old, yellowed aged paper, so light from exposure, you could hardly read it.
It was in a display case at the railroad museum in Griffith Park near Los Angeles.
I retyped it exactly as the writer had written it.
What war she is talking about at the end, I don't know.
Most likely World War II.
At the time, women took men's jobs as they headed off to war and this
young lass apparently worked in the tool crib at a rail yard.
There was no name on it or date but we thought it was very entertaining.
She seems slightly ahead of her time.
And I give you;
My job is full of troubles and now I will tell you a few of the unpleasant things that I'm forced to do.
Now if I wasn't naturally a virtuous young miss, I wouldn't hold my job down long enough to tell you this. A dozen times a day my modesty is shocked and I'm a very thankful girl the tool room door is locked.
Now I don't mind such decent tools as wrenches, drills and shears but some of the tools they ask for make me red behind the ears.
A man fixing a bearing comes and asked to see my balls and before recovering from the shock, another fellow calls. He asked for cocks to put on pipes; for counterbores and tits. But when they ask me for a screw it scares me into fits.
They want reamers to enlarge their holes. At least that's what they say. And They ask me if I have a nut, a dozen times a day.
They ask me for a ratchet drill and for a bastard file.
One day a fellow come to me as I had returned from lunch, and asked me through the window if I'd seen his big prick punch. Such things as that annoy me but what I won't forget, is when the cashier asked me if I'd had my monthly yet.
The foreman looked one day for some tools to gut a slot said to me "open up my drawers, and show him what I got".
They ask me for a bitch dog, which makes my temper wild. One asked me for a female gauge, which almost made me wail, because I had to ask the difference between a female and male.
One man complained, 'My tool's too short' Another 'It's too long' Another says his tool's too weak, another it's too strong.
One asked me if I could put him wise as to where he could find some tailstock. Another wants a bunch of waste to wipe off a plumber's cock.
Another old machinist who had one half a jag, asked me at the window for a handful of my rag.
Now this all goes to show you that on all working days, a tool room girl must take it in a dozen different ways. But when this war is over and we all start life anew, I guess I'll miss that window and the boys who need a screw.
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