F. Scott Fitzgerald - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (Chapter 2) lyrics

"Good-morning," Mr. bu*ton said nervously, to the clerk in the Chesapeake Dry Goods Company. "I want to buy some clothes for my child." "How old is your child, sir?" "About six hours," answered Mr. bu*ton, without due consideration. "Babies' supply department in the rear." "Why, I don't think—I'm not sure that's what I want. It's—he's an unusually large-size child. Exceptionally—ah large." "They have the largest child's sizes." "Where is the boys' department?" inquired Mr. bu*ton, shifting his ground desperately. He felt that the clerk must surely scent his shameful secret. "Right here." "Well——" He hesitated. The notion of dressing his son in men's clothes was repugnant to him. If, say, he could only find a very large boy's suit, he might cut off that long and awful beard, dye the white hair brown, and thus manage to conceal the worst, and to retain something of his own self-respect—not to mention his position in Baltimore society. But a frantic inspection of the boys' department revealed no suits to fit the new-born bu*ton. He blamed the store, of course—in such cases it is the thing to blame the store. "How old did you say that boy of yours was?" demanded the clerk curiously. "He's—sixteen." "Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought you said six hours. You'll find the youths' department in the next aisle." Mr. bu*ton turned miserably away. Then he stopped, brightened, and pointed his finger toward a dressed dummy in the window display. "There!" he exclaimed. "I'll take that suit, out there on the dummy." The clerk stared. "Why," he protested, "that's not a child's suit. At least it is, but it's for fancy dress. You could wear it yourself!" "Wrap it up," insisted his customer nervously. "That's what I want." The astonished clerk obeyed. Back at the hospital Mr. bu*ton entered the nursery and almost threw the package at his son. "Here's your clothes," he snapped out. The old man untied the package and viewed the contents with a quizzical eye. "They look sort of funny to me," he complained, "I don't want to be made a monkey of—" "You've made a monkey of me!" retorted Mr. bu*ton fiercely. "Never you mind how funny you look. Put them on—or I'll—or I'll spank you." He swallowed uneasily at the penultimate word, feeling nevertheless that it was the proper thing to say. "All right, father"—this with a grotesque simulation of filial respect—"you've lived longer; you know best. Just as you say." As before, the sound of the word "father" caused Mr. bu*ton to start violently. "And hurry." "I'm hurrying, father." When his son was dressed Mr. bu*ton regarded him with depression. The costume consisted of dotted socks, pink pants, and a belted blouse with a wide white collar. Over the latter waved the long whitish beard, drooping almost to the waist. The effect was not good. "Wait!" Mr. bu*ton seized a hospital shears and with three quick snaps amputated a large section of the beard. But even with this improvement the ensemble fell far short of perfection. The remaining brush of scraggly hair, the watery eyes, the ancient teeth, seemed oddly out of tone with the gaiety of the costume. Mr. bu*ton, however, was obdurate—he held out his hand. "Come along!" he said sternly. His son took the hand trustingly. "What are you going to call me, dad?" he quavered as they walked from the nursery—"just 'baby' for a while? till you think of a better name?" Mr. bu*ton grunted. "I don't know," he answered harshly. "I think we'll call you Methuselah."