Well, things git on from bad to wuss, until I'm free ter grant, I'd smash it into kindlin', but a present, so, I can't! And, though a member of the church, and deacon, I declare, That thing jest sets me up on end and makes me want ter swear! I try ter be religious and ter tread the narrer way, But seems as if that critter knew when I knelt down ter pray, And all my thoughts of heaven go a-tumblin' down ter,--well, A different kind of climate--when that bird sets out ter yell: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!" I read once in a poetry book, that Ezry had ter home, The awful fuss a feller made about a crow, that come And pestered him about ter death and made him sick and sore, By settin' on his mantel-piece and hollerin' "Nevermore!" But, say, I'd ruther have the crow, with all his fuss and row, His bellerin' had _some_ sense, b'gosh! 'T was _English_, anyhow; And all the crows in Christendom that talked a Christian talk Would seem like nightingales, compared ter that air furrin squawk: "_Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo! _Hoo_-hoo!" * * * * * THE POPULAR SONG I never was naturally vicious; My spirit was lamb-like and mild; I never was bad or malicious; I loved with the trust of a child. But hate now my bosom is burning, And all through my being I long To get one solid thump on the head of the chump Who wrote the new popular song. [Illustration: "The washwoman sings it all wrong."] The office-boy hums it, The book-keeper drums it, It's whistled by all on the street; The hand-organ grinds it, The music-box winds it, It's sung by the "cop" on the beat. The newsboy, he spouts it, The bootblack, he shouts it, The washwoman sings it all wrong; And I laugh, and I weep, And I wake, and I sleep, To the tune of that popular song. Its measures are haunting my dreaming; I rise at the breakfast-bell's call To hear the new chambermaid screaming The chorus aloud through the hall. The landlady's daughter's piano Is helping the concert along, And my molars I break on the tenderloin steak As I chew to that popular song. The orchestra plays it, The German band brays it, 'T is sung on the platform and stage; All over the city They're chanting the ditty; At summer resorts it's the rage. The drum corps, it beats it, The echo repeats it, The bass-drummer brings it out strong, And we speak, and we talk, And we dance, and we walk, To the notes of that popular song. It really is driving me crazy; I feel that I'm wasting away; My brain is becoming more hazy, My appetite less every day. But, ah! I'd not pray for existence, Nor struggle my life to prolong, If, up some dark alley, with him I might dally Who wrote that new popular song.