The trouble of a Tool Room girl

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,

“T R O U B L E S”

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 then they ask 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.

The trouble of a Tool Room girl.