Little Billy the Bear
Sat up in his lair
Munching at Cleveland pie;
He stuck in his thumb
For the postoffice plum
And got it—in a pig’s eye.

John W. Smith was a farmer bold,
With his tall silk hat and his chain of gold.
And the way John had of making hay
Was to mow his grass with an A. P. A.

"Old woman, old woman, whither so high ?"
"To sweep the cobwebs, child, off from the sky."
"Pray let us have a broom apiece
For Mrs. Powers and Dr. Leas."

I wouldn’t be a butcher man
Like George or Charley Klingaman—
He kills the little calves and sheep
An' piles ‘em all in a heap,—
An’ papa says the tails and feet
He chops up into sausage meat
‘N sometimes little dogs 'n cats
Goes in along wiv long-tailed rats—
It’s bad to he a butcher man
‘N have ‘em call you Klingaman.