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Page 224 text:
JIrn anil (Emt
She was a maiden fair to see,
And often had she said to me,
She ne’er from singleness would part;
That no mere man could win her heart.
She, woman’s rights did advocate,
Or reckless man forever prate—
How his frail frame would go to smash If "frau” failed to ladle out the hash.
Her wedded friends did men demean;
They warned her if slic’d still be queen,
Within her heart let no love steal—
It bringeth much of woe and weal.
He was a woman hater, born,
Of all fine fancies he was shorn;
No woman vet, he’d ever seen Who’d look at him—he was so mean.
His one grand theme was of their stealth,
How they could filch from man his wealth,
When in the wee sma’ hours of night He’d with the demon rarebits fight.
His married friends had told him o’er If he’d be happy, think no more Upon the luckless subject, love;
For if lie did, no more the dove Of happiness and peace divine,
Would hover ’round his tree and vine.
He listened and took heed once more,
But as I’ve often said before—
You can’t control the band of life,
But only keep step with the fife.
He moved about—though very stupid,
Until one day lie met young Cupid Out foraging, on mischief bent,
Into man’s heart an arrow sent.
As usual, true unto its aim,
Another to the maiden came;
Both hearts were pierced—they none can blame; They had not made resistance bold,
In spite of all their friends had told.
Page 223 text:
3ln fHg (Uranium
Oh my Lord, man, what you sayin’?
Surely strong thoughts you ain’t weighin’? If you say that you don’t notice Somethin’ awful wrong with me.
Why, old man, my head’s a bustin’.
All my business I’m adjustin’—
For I think I hear the summons Of the angels, callin’ me.
There seem to be ten thousand wheels Run by half as many mills,
All a grindin’ and a roarin’
Right inside my cranium.
And the way they buzz and wheeze Seems to go clear to my knees,
For they’ve grown so weak and wobbly I can’t walk.
No, old man, I hain’t got tremens,
But I vow it must be demons—
The way they claw and hammer Just inside my cranium.
One is sawin’ at my ear-drum.
One is chiselin’ my throat down.
One is pullin’ out the socket Where mv eyeball used to be.
Then they all unite their forces And they work like forty horses,
Each one pullin’ in a different way Inside my cranium.
Till it seems it must be breakin’—
—Just then “Mom” gives me a shakin’, And I know it only is the grippe I’ve got!
Two hundred eleven
Page 225 text:
These two now sit before their fire,
And he calls every man a liar;
He wants to give that one a slug,
Who says that marriage is a drug.
She speaks no more of worthless trash, But calmly mixes up the hash,
And wonders how she lived so long Without the glory of his song.
Now if you'll do a kindly deed,
Of these last words take careful heed; You who arc thus unhappily yoked,
Our deepest pity have invoked.
But, for the sake of future clans,
Don't form yourselves in fireproof bands, And prate aboyt love's luckless fate—
It’s just the sour grapes you ate!
We have heard the daffy mumbler And the discontented grumbler;
They have tried in vain to show us That the world is growing worse. They've discussed each situation, Talked of perils of the nation,
Till we’ve longed to see them riding To the boneyard in the hearse.
They have missed the silver lining That behind each cloud is shining; They have failed to find the diamonds That lie sparkling in the slate.
But continually they’re growling,
Ever keeping up their howling—
They shall one day sec their error, When alas! 'twill be too late.
With their sins all unamended,
When their journey here is ended, They will meet Saint Peter grumbling, And their records they will tell.
But he’ll say, “I've heard about you, Heaven will better be without you— And the only place you’re needed,
That I know of, is in—Kearney.”
Tiro hundred thirteen
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