![]() John Elmer Pettibone Cajee (I write of him with little glee) Was just as bad as he could be. 'Twas frequently remarked: "I swon! The sun has never looked upon So bad a man as Neighbor John." A sinner through and through, he had This added fault: it made him mad To know another man was bad. In such a case he thought it right To rise at any hour of night And quench that wicked person's light. Despite the town's entreaties, he Would hale him to the nearest tree And leave him swinging wide and free. Or sometimes, if the humor came, A luckless wight's reluctant frame Was given to the cheerful flame. While it was turning nice and brown, All unconcerned John met the frown Of that austere and righteous town. "How sad," his neighbors said, "that he So scornful of the law should be -- An anar c, h, i, s, t." (That is the way that they preferred To utter the abhorrent word, So strong the aversion that it stirred.) "Resolved," they said, continuing, "That Badman John must cease this thing Of having his unlawful fling. "Now, by these sacred relics" --here Each man had out a souvenir Got at a lynching yesteryear -- "By these we swear he shall forsake His ways, nor cause our hearts to ache By sins of rope and torch and stake. "We'll tie his red right hand until He'll have small freedom to fulfil The mandates of his lawless will." So, in convention then and there, They named him Sheriff. The affair Was opened, it is said, with prayer. --J. Milton Sloluck |
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![]() The wheels go round without a sound -- The maidens hold high revel; In sinful mood, insanely gay, True spinsters spin adown the way From duty to the devil! They laugh, they sing, and --ting-a-ling! Their bells go all the morning; Their lanterns bright bestar the night Pedestrians a-warning. With lifted hands Miss Charlotte stands, Good-Lording and O-mying, Her rheumatism forgotten quite, Her fat with anger frying. She blocks the path that leads to wrath, Jack Satan's power defying. The wheels go round without a sound The lights burn red and blue and green. What's this that's found upon the ground? Poor Charlotte Smith's a smithareen! --John William Yope |
![]() His bad opponent's "facts" he sweeps away, And drags his sophistry to light of day; Then swears they're pushed to madness who resort To falsehood of so desperate a sort. Not so; like sods upon a dead man's breast, He lies most lightly who the least is pressed. --Polydore Smith |
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![]() The bard who would prosper must carry a book, Do his thinking in prose and wear A crimson cravat, a far-away look And a head of hexameter hair. Be thin in your thought and your body'll be fat; If you wear your hair long you needn't your hat. |
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