It fills the lawyer’s purse with fees, It crowds the courts with quick decrees, It to the drug store many guide, It fills the graves with suicide. It pulls the trigger of the gun, It breaks the heart of many a one, It causes pain where joy should be, It fills the home with misery. It joins the short unto the tall, It never heeds old wisdom’s call, It clasps the hands of slim and stout, And makes a mess beyond a doubt. It breaks the dishes on your head, It makes you wish that you were dead, It mixes father with the son, It has no end when once begun. It’s no respecter of your right, It gets you out at dead of night, It makes its scars and many a whelt, It makes you cuss T. Roosevelt. It makes the Irish like the Dutch, The black the brown the squaw and such. It causes if the truth would tell, A thing on earth you all know well. So with all wisdom I’ll confess, Before you tackle this word yes, Have these professions up in G, Lawyer, preacher and M. D. * * * * * The Lay of the Last Hen. ’Twas yesterday the deed was done, That made my heart feel like a ton, When cruel fate held its sway, And robbed my hen of her last lay. The sympathy swelled in my breast, For my old hen so long caressed, Who stood by me for many years, Thru joy and sorrow, mirth and tears. When times were hard and crops were light, There was to me no sweeter sight, To get that egg and let it melt, Underneath my gnawing pelt. The tariff never worried her She did her duty at one per, Wilson, Taft or Roosevelt, Never had a cause she felt. She built the muscle in my arm, She paid the taxes on the farm, She kept the wolf from strolling in, She clothed the kids from Kate to Win. She always let the whole world know, With joyful song in rain or snow, That she’d performed a duty neat, That man himself has never beat. I couldn’t help it, I’ll confess, The tears flowed freely, more or less, When that dear form was tenderly laid, Beneath the elm tree’s pleasant shade.