SHINGLE-SHORT
But Mother, now? As good as good,
Lovin’ an’ pretty: sing, she could!
An’ save us! how that woman toil’d—
But, foolish-like, at eatin’ food—
Thought she could live on tea-leaves stew’d;
That’s how she got her stummick spoil’d.
—Oh, well, if Mother don’t come clear,
Guess that’s a settle’em for the rest,
An’ blame’s attachin’ to the best.
While, as for work an’ such—Look here!
I guess the one success you do
Is, thinkin’ you’re a-goin’ to.
Oh, all’s right then: looks good, an’ sound,
An’ plump, and reggular all-round—
Puff-ballish! Prove it, an’ it’s broke,
For all that good fat shape was—Smoke.
(Like look at me to-night, poor bloke!
A-savin’ up for this all day!)
Or most of it was, anyway.—
’Tain’t never just the thing you thought;
Don’t never pan out all it ought.
Say, now, I’d managed to think straight,
An’ plann’d a stool o’ that poor wood,
An’ made it proper, all to rule
(An’ even Missis always says
’Tain’t in my hands the madness lays),—
Think ’t ’ud ha’ been a perfeck stool?
You don’ know nothin’ if you do.
Look here! As sure as butter’s rich,
Turn’d out exackly as was traced,
Somehow that stool’d ha’ got disgraced.—
Just little, mind you; needn’t stare,
But can’t I see it, sniggerin’ there!
32
