Once have we bashed him on the head;
Twice have we stabbed him deep;
Thrice have we left him there for dead
And yet he will not sleep;
He dreaded not dark, nor the lonely road,
For the world, as he knew it, was kind.
Nor threat of the risk, nor necessity's goad
Gave fear to his innocent mind.
Eight days to beer! A sigh sweeps thro' the nation
Sweeps like a gale from 'Frisco to New York.
('Say! But it's tough, this long anticipation.
Oh boy! I'm rarin' to get at that cork!')
Well (said the small, meek man) we look for change
In this sad world, for these are stirring days;
And men pin hopes to methods new and strange
And see lost happiness thro' altered ways.
To gild refined gold, or to paint the lily,
Or seek by other means to overstress,
As Shakespeare has it, is not merely silly,
But 'wasteful and ridiculous excess.'
Another milestone gained and passed,
Another 'rakkud' broken,
And this year's deaths exceed the last,
Which is a hopeful token.
Do you know Fred? Now there's a man to know
These days when politics are in the air,
An' argument is bargin' to an' fro
Without a feller gittin' anywhere.
The heathen's not efficient;
He sits down in the sun
And doesn't care a tuppn'y dump
When the day's work's begun.
'E 'ad spragged me before for the loan of a quid.
But I told 'im straight out I was broke.
Still 'e would 'ang around me, wotever I did.
'E's a regiler obstinit bloke.